And Now For Something Completely Different
by NongPradu
Summary: AU. Set pre-series and season 1. Dean goes to Palo Alto to get help finding Dad, but he doesn't come alone. Rated T for language. Not a Romance!
1. Chapter 1

**Story Notes:**

Yes, I know! I know! This has been done before, probably to death... Which is why the title of this story is so funny, because it isn't inventive at all on my part.

This story is a treat entirely to myself, because the show is getting so bleak and angsty, tearing our beloved Winchesters apart this season with the apocalypse stuff, and I wanted to do something nice for myself. So now we have this.

Kripke and company will never give this to me -- and as they say, if you want something done, you've got to do it yourself.

(I'm really trying not to give the big shocking reveal away before you've read the first chapter). It's not shocking actually. lol.

For those saps out there like me who want some Winchester family fluff, like hot cocoa or chocolate cookie dough ice cream for the soul, this is for you. :)

* * *

There were few things in life as satisfying as a well-brewed cup of coffee, served up in the right atmosphere, with the right friends as company to wile away a few hours, especially after the mid-term rush was over. It was like sinking into a warm bath after shoveling a driveway full of snow, or falling into bed after a trans-Atlantic flight of sixteen hours. And _Carl's Cafe_ was what Nick Melloni considered to be his own private comfort spot – the bath and the bed in one – with its comfy sofas and its penchant for playing Tom Waits. It was a campus cafe, though not smack dab in the middle – slightly out of the way, a little less well known. Haven to bookworms and beatniks, it was both comfy and moody, with low-hanging lights that gave off minimum wattage, and dark walls adorned with original pieces painted by local artists from the art college. It was everything an Arts major like Nick could look for in a cafe. _Carl's_ was home sweet home. Which was why the cramped quarters due to too many customers crowded around the too few tables and pulsatingly long line-up was really, really pissing him off.

Sure, it was Halloween, and _Carl's_ frosted cookies were both cheap and delicious, as well as being practically world famous. He got that. All the kids from campus came to _Carl's_ for the holidays, even the ones that weren't bank holidays. Valentines Day brought heart-shaped cookies, while St. Patrick's Day yielded Shamrocks. Christmas was special, with wreaths, candy canes, and Christmas trees to make up the cafe's cookie arsenal. And Halloween? Well Carl just went all out.

But that still didn't explain why that guy had brought his screaming kid in. University cafes were for _university students_ – not useless breeders and their squalling toddlers. And right now, the kid's face was positively red as she screamed her face off, for which her dad offered no apologies whatsoever. Nick wanted to go over and punch him, or at the very least, ask him to leave or make his brat shut the hell up. She was ruining his comfort moment, spoiling his Zen.

And he wasn't the only one.

"Okay seriously?" Mandy said, rolling her eyes in the direction of the still heaving line-up. "That guy should take his kid and leave. It's really disrupting everyone else."

"Seriously," Nick agreed, rolling his eyes for added emphasis. "Some people are trying to _relax_."

They certainly looked relaxed, sprawled as they were atop the leather cushions of two parallel sofas that flanked the coffee table that held their now empty coffee cups. The group of undergrads had met up for their usual Monday afternoon coffee date, and were now comfortably settled into the couches like permanent fixtures. Being a rather large group, they needed both sofas to accommodate everyone. Much to the guys' chagrin, they'd more than once been jokingly compared to the cast of friends at Central Perk.

"It's bad enough that it's packed in here – I mean, don't these people know already that this is our spot?" Mandy complained, half-jokingly, half-serious. "But I don't _do_ screaming kids. And it's not fair to inflict your screaming kids on the rest of the world. Am I right?"

But of course, it was Jess who had to play the bleeding heart card.

"Knock it off, guys," she said with good humour. "He's probably just buying a cookie for his daughter. And he has as much right to be here as the rest of us."

"Yeah, well her cookies don't trump my bleeding ears, man," Nick whined.

Truth was, Nick was a little stressed about the paper he'd just handed in. He'd asked for an extension and even with the extra two days of working on it, he still wasn't satisfied with the end result. It felt rushed and entirely uninspired. Apparently his thoughts on the Hegelian dialectic weren't even interesting enough to him to make a decent paper, which didn't bode well for his upcoming grade. And that left his gut roiling, on top of the tension headache he could feel forming behind his eyes. The screaming kid and the overall noise in the crowded cafe – _his_ cafe – were just making him feel worse by the minute.

"Where's Sam?" he asked, hoping to distract himself from his growing anxiety and oncoming headache.

"He should be on his way by now," Jess replied, flipping a golden strand of hair off her shoulder as she leaned back against the couch. "He was finishing up at the library."

"Cool," Nick said. "Then we can start making plans for our big Halloween bash tonight."

Jessica shook her head and smiled ruefully.

"You know I'm going to have to drag Sam along kicking and screaming," she reminded him. "Maybe we should just keep it low-key. Have some people over to our place for some wine and cheese or something."

"Screw the wine and cheese," Nick scoffed. "We need beer – and lots of it. Gotta celebrate Sam's awesome LSAT scores!" God that paper was probably going to be a C. And then it would drag his whole GPA down. Definitely needed copious amounts of beer, applied liberally, for a number of hours.

"I'm just saying," Jess said innocently, hands half raised in surrender. "You know how Sam is..."

"Oh yeah?" a voice called from behind. "And how, exactly, is Sam?"

Nick watched as Jess turned at the sound of her boyfriend's voice, her whole face lighting up as she craned her neck back and around to look up, up, up at the looming 6'4 figure above her.

"Hey there hot stuff," she teased, snaking an arm around his waist to pull him closer to the couch so that his thighs banged harmlessly against it. "Why don't you go grab yourself a coffee and then join us? And grab a refill for me while you're at it?"

She smiled winsomely, noting that the line-up was long enough that Sam would be there for some time.

"It's a good thing you're cute and I like you," Sam replied, taking her cup and giving her a soft kiss on top of her golden head. "Otherwise you'd be lost without your coffee, suffering the ravages of a killer caffeine-withdrawal headache."

"Just _'like'_ me?" she queried playfully.

"More like worships," Mandy teased.

"Pussy-whipped," Nick added.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam muttered, walking away and brandishing a finger in their general direction.

"Grab me one while you're at it!" Nick hollered, but was met only with more waving of the finger and Sam's retreating back as he made his way to the back of the line-up. Nick grinned and resumed his languishing, sprawled position on the couch.

"I should have gotten more than one cookie," he added thoughtfully, and was about to explain how one cookie was never enough, and that his cheapskate tendencies to skimp on the sweets always left him hungry and dissatisfied, when an outburst from the line-up suddenly drew his attention.

"What the hell are you doing here, Dean?" Sam's voice rang out over the crowd, which had suddenly fallen very quiet.

"Heya Sammy," a shorter man with sandy-blonde hair replied, stepping toward the milk and cream station to set his tray of food down, the screaming child seated at his hip and pawing at his face. "Long time no see, little brother."

888

Sam had never seen it this busy at _Carl's_. Sure, it tended to get crowded around the holidays, or at mid-terms, but this was just a seething mass of humanity in all its consumer glory. It made him feel mildly claustrophobic. Of course, it wasn't helped by the fact that the line-up didn't appear to be moving at all, due mostly to the fact that some guy at the counter was trying to juggle a coffee, a plate of cookies, a screaming toddler, and his wallet all at the same time.

Sam felt sorry for the guy. He couldn't see him up close, but from his place at the back of the line Sam would guess him to be about Dean's height. He had light, spiky hair like Dean, too, and a brown leather jacket that looked suspiciously like... But that couldn't be, because Dean was off hunting God knows where with Dad, and Dean definitely wouldn't have some screaming toddler hanging off his side like some jungle monkey. Still, it did make Sam think of his brother, and that sent a stab to his heart at the thought of the last time they'd even spoken to each other. It had been over two years.

"Mary Winchester, so help me God," the young man at the counter's voice carried over the crowd, yanking Sam away from his thoughts with the force of a Mack truck going at warp speed. "You'll get your cookies in a second, but only if you stop with that screamin'."

Sam's heart stopped. He was certain it stopped beating altogether, for a full two minutes. Probably hadn't stopped at all, in reality, but it sure as hell felt like it had exploded in his chest and left a hollow cavity in its wake.

"Dean?" he croaked, loud enough only for his own ears. And then he saw the young man turn around, lips he'd know anywhere pursed tight as he shoved his wallet into his back jeans pocket and then held a tray with cookies and coffee teetering precariously on one outstretched hand, green eyes framed by long sooty lashes cast down as he attempted to weave his way past the crowded line-up with the small child now happily compliant with the cookies so close within her reach.

"Dean?" Sam called again, this time loud enough to draw his brother's attention. Dean froze, his head snapping to the side in search of the voice, his eyes zig-zagging through the crowd until they finally fell upon the sight of his (big)little brother across the crowded floor.

Sam watched as the worry lines on his brother's handsome face evaporated, a megawatt smile stealing its way across his delicate features as his eyes softened with genuine pleasure and what looked like relief. They stared at each other a moment, each drinking in the sight of the other, Sam with his mouth hanging open like a fish out of water, Dean with his eyes crinkling at the corners as his smile grew wistful.

Dean was standing in a coffee shop with a kid on his hip, calling her Mary Winchester. _What. The. FUCK!?_ Sam couldn't make heads or tails of it. Mary Winchester. Mary Winchester. It didn't make any kind of sense. The child was cute – though adorable, stunning, gorgeous were probably better suited to describe the utter perfection of the sweet, cherub-faced little girl who was even now nuzzling her face against his big brother's neck, one hand sneaking forward to attempt to grab at one of the cookies on the plate. She had blonde hair that was pulled into two soft pigtails, hanging straight past her ears and falling down to her chin. Sam had never seen his mom, but he could guess that this kid probably looked just like her. Or else, maybe she just looked like Dean.

It was nine kinds of crazy, and yet here Dean was, standing here, in Sam's favourite coffee shop in Palo Alto, with some strange kid and offering no explanations. And suddenly Sam wanted to scream.

"What the hell are you doing here, Dean?" he demanded.

"Heya Sammy," Dean said. "Long time no see, little brother."

And apparently, that was all he was going to say. The crowd had gone awkwardly silent at Sam's shouted demand, but slowly the chatter recommenced, allowing them at least some semblance of privacy as Sam stalked several steps towards his brother, his chin jutting dangerously forward, his nostrils flared.

"What. The Hell. Are you doing here?" he pressed.

Sam watched as Dean's smile wavered, the light in his eyes diminishing at his brother's anger. Obviously he had imagined a warmer reception than this, if he'd bothered to imagine it at all.

"I uh," Dean coughed and then attempted a smile. "I came to see my little brother." He raised his eyebrows hopefully, as if in a question. _Was this enough?_ the look said.

Sam tilted his head significantly in the toddler's direction, his own eyebrows raising high into his hairline and disappearing somewhere in the shaggy mop.

"Right," Dean said, taking a fortifying breath and attempting another weak smile – the Dean Winchester smile that looked remarkably like a question. "Uh, this is, uh... This is Mary. My daughter. Your niece." He coughed again. "So that means you're an uncle..."

Sam just stared at him blankly.

"Congratulations, it's a girl!" Dean cried in mock celebration, his nostrils flaring now with that smile that was still a question.

And if Dean weren't holding a two year-old, Sam would have punched him.

888

Dean had a daughter. Dean had a fucking daughter. A fucking _two year-old_ daughter. And no one had thought to tell him, to call him, to give him a heads-up and say, 'Hey, Sam! You'll never guess what's happened!' A million and one different thoughts rushed through Sam's head, pounding through his ears and pulsing through his body with urgent need, screaming _whatthehellwhatthehellwhathtehell_.

If Sam was honest with himself, this scenario wasn't completely beyond the realm of possibility. Sure, it was hard picturing Dean as a dad, if only because Dean was such a freakin' drifter, such a con artist charlatan trouble-maker that it was almost impossible to picture him being responsible for another person's life – especially a little tiny innocent person who would depend on him for _everything_. On the other hand, biologically it made sense. Dean had more sex than probably anyone Sam had ever met, had probably had more partners than a five-dollar hooker. Okay, so maybe that was stretching it a bit much. But his brother was a man-slut, and it wasn't totally inconceivable that he could have spawned a child here or there along the American landscape. Hell, Sam had always suspected that somewhere out there was a green-eyed, blonde-haired mini-Dean wondering where his or her daddy was. Maybe more than one. But this?

The sight of his big, devil-may-care brother, the skirt-chasing, consummate ladies man who ran away screaming from responsibility like it was a plague rat, his Dean clutching a grabby, needy, yet visibly happy two year-old baby girl to his side as she nuzzled into him and babbled at him in her own broken version of English, seeing the natural way their bodies seemed to fit together, as if they'd spent their whole lives together, as if she depended on him and _he was there for her_... It was breathtaking and mind-boggling at the same time.

And Sam found he couldn't speak. Between wanting to choke his brother, bombard him with the oodles of questions he had, and wanting to steal himself away with the positively adorable little girl whose mossy green eyes were boring into his and melting him even as she hid shyly behind her own impossibly long lashes, just like her daddy's – between all of that, Sam found himself simply frozen in place and at a complete loss for what to do or say.

It was Jessica who rescued him.

"Babe?" she asked, having snuck up behind him at some point and placed her soft hand reassuringly on the small of his back. "Sam, you okay?"

Jessica's presence effectively drew him out of his stupor. He could think again, if only in a strictly functional, we've-got-witnesses-so-let's-get-the-pleasantries-over-with kind of way.

"Yeah," he heard himself say in a husky voice that couldn't possibly be his. He cleared his throat and sniffed. "Yeah. I'm fine."

He turned and smiled at her, drawing her close with one of his massive paws and pulling her to his side, an arm wrapped protectively around her (though protecting her from what, he wasn't sure).

"Jess, this is my brother Dean," he said, indicating Dean and Mary. "Dean, this is Jess."

Dean wiped his left hand on his jeans and extended it toward Jess in greeting, his right hand currently being occupied by the little girl in his arms.

"Hey," Dean said, his megawatt smile returning.

Jess paused and looked up at Sam, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Dean?" she asked and Sam nodded in reply. "Wow." She seemed to be at a loss for words too, and looked even more confused when she took in the sight of Mary in Dean's arms. Sam had definitely not mentioned anything about having a niece.

"Ummm...." Jess began. "So you're here to see Sam?"

"Yeah," Dean said, sounding both conversational and relieved. "Just thought I'd stop by at last to see how my little brother's doin' in good old Cali-forn-eye-A."

Jess eyed both brothers suspiciously, sensing the tension in the air.

"Sam says it's been a while," she said meaningfully.

"Two years," Sam said, equally meaningfully, glancing at Mary as his jaw twitched. He so wanted to punch his brother right now for not telling him about this.

Dean laughed awkwardly.

"Yeah, well, what're ya gonna do, right? Been busy." It was his turn to look at Mary meaningfully.

"I wanna tootie daddy!" the child suddenly garbled, her pink cheeks dimpling as she attempted a winning smile to coax her very distracted father to give her one of the very coveted cookies.

It was then that Jess noticed that Dean's tray was sitting untouched, his coffee undrunk and the cookies uneaten, on the milk and cream counter.

"Here, why don't you come sit with us?" she suggested, noticing how other patrons had to step around them to get to their tables.

"Yeah," Sam said absently, wishing he could just pull his brother outside and scream at him _'whatthehellwhatthehellwhatthehell?'_ but knowing that would be impossible with his friends watching and with Jess standing right there trying so hard to be polite.

"Sounds great, thanks," Dean replied. He looked anxious, but the pawing, grabbing, reaching hands of his daughter seemed to remind him of more pressing concerns.

"Here, let me take this," Sam offered, grabbing the coffee in one hand and the plate of cookies in the other and abandoning the tray altogether.

"Thanks, Sammy." The grateful look that Dean cast his way was almost enough to shatter Sam's anger. Almost.

"It's Sam."

To say that Sam's friends were surprised when Dean and Mary joined them at the couches would be a gross understatement. Nick's eyes opened wide with shock, his left eyebrow twitching in what was unmistakably irritation. Not surprisingly, the girls took in the sight of Dean, lady-killer-Dean with his movie star smile and the adorable cherub-faced toddler in his arms, and positively fell over themselves with maternal oohing and aahing and Sam could practically hear their biological clocks ticking and could almost smell pheromones in the air. He had no doubt that Dean used his daughter to pick up chicks. He'd consider it a perk of the job.

"Hey guys," Sam said to the assembled group without preamble. "This is my brother Dean and his daughter Mary. Everyone – Dean." He swept his arm around the group in a vague gesture of 'here they are' and then promptly took a seat on the couch with Jessica.

"Hey," Dean said, nodding and smiling. He sat down in one of the comfy lounge chairs that someone had recently vacated and placed Mary on his lap, where she happily gnawed on the cookie her father had just handed her.

"Mmmm... tooties," she said, opening her mouth wide to take a bite with tiny teeth. Her blissed-out smile was so like Dean's when sinking his teeth into a juicy cheeseburger or a good slice of apple pie that Sam had to stifle a laugh.

There were polite questions, of course, about what Dean did and what brought him to Palo Alto, how old was Mary, and how was he finding California so far? Dean answered with his usual fake openness, pretending to be an open book, pretending to be Joe Normal for the sake of his little brother. Dean was a mechanic, he said. Just taking a small break to visit his little brother (_'Right, Sammy?'_). But when they asked about Mary, Dean's face positively lit up. For her part, Mary had buried her face in her father's neck, pretending to be shy, Dean assured them.

"Mary's quite the tripple threat," Dean explained. "She loves to sing and dance. And she's one hell of an actress. Aren'cha, Mare?"

She buried her face deeper into her father's neck and promptly slapped him on the head as if to say, 'Don't be so silly, Daddy!'

"Yeah?" Jess asked, leaning forward. "You like to sing, Mary? I _love_ to sing."

Mary paused in her burrowing and turned slightly, her green eyes meeting large pale blue ones.

"Sam and me sing all the time," Jess assured her, nodding emphatically.

"Do you wanna sing for your uncle Sammy?" Dean asked tentatively, his face so close to Mary's his nose was just skimming her cheek as she peered cautiously at the assembled grown-ups who all seemed eager to hear her sing.

Sam couldn't help leaning forward eagerly. He really did want to see his little niece perform, if only because Dean seemed so keen on getting her to do it. It must be damned adorable if Dean was putting her on display like this.

"Come on, why doncha show your uncle Sammy how you can sing and dance, huh?" Dean coaxed. "I'll sing with you."

Apparently, 'I'll sing with you' actually meant 'I'll sing _for_ you.' Dean began singing shamelessly, to which Mary almost immediately sprang into action, standing up on his lap and swaying/bouncing from side to side, mumbling tunelessly along with her daddy.

"_Just a small town girl,"_ Dean sang. _"Livin' in a lonely world. She took a midnight train goin' anywhere."_

'_Journey?'_ Sam mouthed, eyebrows arched. Dean simply grinned and continued with his own rocker-style version of the soft rock classic.

"_Just a city boy, livin' in South Detroit. He took a midnight train goin' anywhere."_

Mary obviously didn't know the words, but would join in at certain points to garble along with her daddy, pausing in her dancing or jerking with a longer-held note to accentuate it. But when they got to the final chorus she seemed to break out on her own.

"_Don't stop believing!"_ Dean sang, louder now.

"Howd on dodo feewee!" Mary sang proudly, her eyes lit up with pride and excitement. And when Dean sang the line, "Streetlight people" Mary sang along with something that sounded vaguely like "Seevie beebee."

Everyone clapped at the song's conclusion, including Dean, but his cheeks were red with mirth, his eyes swimming with unshed tears as he fought desperately to suppress his laughter. He'd been about to lose it at "feewee" but completely fell to pieces at the incomprehensible "seevie beebee." Sam got the feeling that Dean did this often to entertain himself, and that it never stopped being funny.

Sam was grinning so broadly his cheeks actually hurt. Mary was too cute for words, and Dean could almost be said to be gushing. It was obvious that he was proud of her, that he was proud to show her off to Sam and his friends. Much as the kid had probably been a mistake (because she sure as hell couldn't have been planned), Sam could tell that, where Mary was concerned, she was something his brother felt he'd done right. And he was proud to let his brother know it, too.

_Why didn't you tell me, Dean?_ It made Sam ache to think of how much time he'd missed with her, how many adorable moments like this one he could have shared in. Why hadn't Dean even called him to let him know he'd become a dad? And how long had Dean known he was a dad?

Speaking of which...

"So yeah, uh, we should probably go," Sam suggested, standing up to stretch his legs. Dean and Jess were both quick to follow suit.

"Yeah, I'm sure you've got lots of catching up to do," Mandy said warmly. Sam didn't miss the strange look that Jessica shot at her, either.

"Well, it's been real," Dean said, giving a half-hearted wave before scooping Mary up off his lap and into his arms once again.

Once they'd made it outside, Jess turned to Sam and gave his hand a tight, reassuring squeeze.

"I'm gonna take off," she said. "I'll make us something to eat and maybe you guys can come back to our place for supper?"

"Thanks Jess," Sam whispered in reply. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, thinking how much he loved her for knowing exactly what he needed and when he needed it.

Dean watched her go, his eyes set in a fierce look of approval.

"Nice, Sammy," he said, letting out a quiet appreciative whoop at Jess's retreating backside. "She's so outta your league."

But Sam had no interest in being put off. He rounded on his brother with a fierce scowl.

"Okay, what the HELL, Dean? What are you doing here? Why aren't you with Dad? And what's with having a kid and not even telling me Dean? When did this happen?"

Dean opened his mouth and licked his lips lazily, smirking with that mischievous twinkle to his eye.

"You want me to answer 'em in that order or what?" Quirking that stupid grin.

"How long have you known about Mary?" Sam demanded. He needed to know that one first.

"Pretty much since she was born," Dean admitted with a shrug.

"And her mother?"

He signed and ran a hand over his face.

"Dead, Sammy. She died right after Mary was born."

Sam could feel his heart racing. Was it the thing that took Mom? He asked as much, feeling like his chest might explode.

"No, no. It was natural. Complications of the pregnancy and delivery, I guess. She tried to do the whole 'natural' thing with a midwife at home." And he shook his head at this, a mixture of pity and regret on his face.

"Oh God, that's horrible," Sam admitted. He found he couldn't yell while talking about poor Mary's dead mother.

"So you've had her since she was born, then?"

"Yup."

"And that was how long ago?"

"A little over two years."

Sam pursed his lips in thought, coming to a decision.

"Put her down."

"What? Why?" Dean looked at Sam skeptically. "You wanna hold her?"

"No, I wanna punch you, you jerk!" Sam shouted. "How could you not tell me something like this?! What the hell, Dean? I'm supposed to be your _brother_ – you're supposed to tell me when something as monumentally HUGE as the birth of your child happens!"

At Sam's outburst and raised voice, and particularly at his threat to punch her daddy, Mary began to cry. Mewling at first quickly gave way to wailing.

"Shh-sh-sh, baby, it's okay," Dean soothed, cradling her head in his hand against his shoulder. "Uncle Sammy's just upset. He didn't mean to yell."

"I want Gumpy!" she bawled. "I wa'my Gumpy!"

If looks could kill, Sam would be dead from the scowl that Dean was leveling at him now.

"Way to go, Einstein," he hissed. "You freakin' made her cry!"

Angry as he was, Sam caved instantly with guilt. He wished he could make Dean cry – the jerk certainly deserved to have every square inch of his ass kicked – but he'd certainly never meant to upset the baby.

"I'm sorry Mary," Sam offered placatingly. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I wa'my Gumpy!" she cried again, her sobs growing louder. Sam noticed through the window of the cafe that heads were turning in their direction. He could see Nick's disgusted smirk at the resumption of the toddler's screaming.

"Gumpy? Is that a toy?" Sam asked quietly. "Should I run to the car and grab—?"

"She wants Dad," Dean said in exasperation, still making shushing sounds and gently rocking her as he stood.

"Dad?" Sam asked, completely lost and confused now. "Gumpy? Gumpy is Dad?"

"Yeah," Dean said, as if that made perfect sense. He was looking at his brother with that sharp-eyed, 'get-with-the-program-Sam' look that had so infuriated him growing up.

"So wait, Dad knows about this?"

Dean huffed a laugh.

"Of course he knows about this," he scoffed. "What, d'you think I just hid her in the closet, tucked her away in my freakin' drawer so Dad wouldn't find out about her? Dude, we sleep in the same room every night!"

"So Dad knew about this and I didn't." It felt like a question, but it wasn't. Or maybe it was. There was a question in there somewhere, though for the life of him Sam couldn't verbalize it.

"Kinda hard to keep it a secret from Dad, Sammy."

"We're supposed to be brothers, Dean!" Sam half-shouted, then immediately brought his voice down to a whisper. "I can't believe you would keep something like this from me!"

"Yeah, well, there never really seemed like a good time to tell you," Dean admitted with a shrug. "Can we go somewhere that's not the middle of the freakin' sidewalk or something?"

And with that, they headed towards the Impala. Mary had calmed down and was twining her fingers through the cord of Dean's amulet, her chubby digits tracing along the contours of the metal.

"Look, I'm sorry, all right?" Dean said once they'd reached the car. "I never meant for it to happen this way. It's just..." He paused and licked his lips again, a sure sign that he was feeling guilty. Any moment now he'd be averting his eyes and... Yep, there he goes – running his hand over his mouth and down his chin!

"I don't know, man. I didn't know how to tell you, okay?"

Sam huffed loudly.

"So you're still hunting?"

Dean looked puzzled.

"Of course."

"So what, Mary's going to be raised like we were? Backwoods cabins, sleazy motel rooms, an endless string of schools and no stability?"

Sam watched as his brother's eyes hardened, his lips pursing together in thought.

"See this? This is why I didn't tell you. I got enough crap offa Dad about how the _responsible_ thing would be to just give her up – I really didn't want to hear it from you too. That and, you know, the whole thing where you stopped answering your phone and wouldn't call me back for a whole freakin' year!"

"I wan'my Gumpy," Mary said weakly, sniffling for added emphasis.

Sam heaved a sigh. "Where is Dad, anyway?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted ominously. "That's why I'm here."

"What?"

"Dad's missing, Sammy. He went on a hunting trip, and I haven't heard from him in a while. Something bad's happened. I can feel it."

"So what do you want me to do?" Sam scoffed, though his guts were already twisting with dread.

"I need you to help me find him."

888

**End Notes:**

Hope you enjoyed my first stab at Winchester fluff. I've always wanted to do a "Dean's a daddy!" story, but haven't had the guts. Now that Kripke's proven himself bound and determined to tear my guts out, I figured what the hey -- might as well go for it.

Unlike other stories I've read with baby Winchesters, I really want to explore John's involvement with the child rearing, so we'll be seeing lots of flashbacks. Those are coming up next chapter!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Notes:**

Here we are with chapter 2. More angst in this one than the last, but I figured the introduction of a baby into the John/Dean dynamic would have been a big shock, and one that Papa Winchester might not have taken so well to in the beginning.

There has to be a build-up to him becoming the beloved Gumpy. Don't worry though, it's coming shortly.

* * *

The car ride was awkward and silent, with nothing but the constant babbling of the sugar-high toddler in the backseat. Sam watched as his brother's eyes flicked between watching the road and his daughter in the rearview mirror, a smile stealing its way across his features every now and then as he watched her talking to herself in the backseat. They weren't sure where they were going, just driving aimlessly so that they could 'talk' and clear the air about what had happened in the last two years. Sam had so many questions, and he intended on getting the answers now. He wasn't going to help Dean so much as find a number in the phone book, let alone taking off to find their Dad, until he'd gotten the whole story.

"So tell me how this happened," Sam said at last, stealing a glance at his niece in the backseat.

"Well..." Dean drawled, rolling his eyes. "There's this thing that happens when a guy and a girl get bouncy in the sheets, Sammy. Didn't Dad ever give you the birds and the bees talk?"

Sam heaved an aggravated sigh.

"Cut the crap, Dean! I'm so not in the mood."

Dean smirked. "Jesus you're touchy."

"Can you please just fill me in, Dean?" Sam heard himself whining. "Just... let me know what the hell happened, okay? Please... I just need to know, okay? Please?"

"Okay," Dean placated. "Okay." He paused and scrubbed a hand over his face, making a strange kind of guttural growling sound to wake himself up, energize himself for the talk that was to come.

"So I guess it would have been, what, November of '02...? And uh, well you were at college. And Dad and I were on this hunt in Massachusetts – a witch. Then halfway through the hunt Dad gets a lead on another hunt and takes off."

Sam halted Dean with a hand on the dash.

"Takes off? As in he left you to finish the hunt by yourself?"

"Yeah," Dean said absently. "So anyway, I was kinda pissed." When he noticed his brother was scrutinizing him like a hawk, he amended. "Okay, a lot pissed. The witch was pretty low on the pay grade. Was hexing the other girls in her 'coven.' And I so gotta use scare quotes man, 'cos these chicks – these other chicks – were _not_ witches."

"Then what were they?" Sam queried.

"Idiots, mostly," Dean explained. "They were like new agey Wiccans, you know? With the crystals and the tarot cards, a blessed altar with some dirt, water, and scented candles representing the four elements. Amateurs, basically. All lovey with the Earth Mother, Gaia-blessed-moon shit. Tree-hugging, vegan witch-wannabes, man."

Sam snorted.

"Yeah, I've met a few of those."

"So anyway, this bitch was hexing her fellow Sisters-of-the-Rag – one got hit by a car and broke both her legs, another fell down the stairs and broke her nose 'n lost her front teeth."

"Yikes!" Sam said, wincing.

"Yeah, the witch was workin' them over, man. So anyway, I caught up with her, stopped her, and then I had some time to kill 'til Dad came back."

Sam halted his brother again.

"And by stopped her you mean...?" God he was hoping his brother hadn't killed a woman.

"I burned her shit, told her if I caught her castin' any more spells I'd put a bullet through her head. Pretty much converted her back to Christianity."

"Huh."

Dean grinned. "You thought I killed her, didn't you?"

"No," Sam replied sullenly. "So anyway... How did this lead to 'new life,' Dean?"

"I'm gettin' there," Dean promised. "Right. So the witch properly thwarted, and no sign of Dad, with me stuck in town waiting for him to come back... So naturally I did the gentlemanly thing and comforted the poor non-mutilated Wiccan hippy chick that was left."

"And that was Mary's mom?"

Dean nodded. "Ellie. Man she was hot. And bendy. She had this huge loft apartment that she shared with a couple other chicks, and I ended up crashin' there with her for almost a month. Kinkiest month of my life, man. Except for that long weekend with Lisa Braeden..."

"DEAN!"

Dean coughed and continued.

"So okay, we hooked up. But being the tree-hugging, PETA-loving vegan that she was, she wasn't really into, uh... How do I say this without offending your delicate sensibilities...? She preferred things au naturale..."

Sam wasn't quite following and raised both eyebrows expectantly, his face urging his brother to continue.

"She wasn't, you know, _on_ anything. And she didn't want to uh, _use_ anything."

This was too much. Sam pursed his lips in consternation and then bit his bottom lip tightly.

"You're not serious," he scoffed at last. "You willingly shacked up for a month of sexcapades without using any form of protection whatsoever. Were you _trying_ to knock her up, or get Dad to kill you?"

"She said she had it covered!" Dean defended, though he cast his brother a guilty look before returning his gaze to the road ahead. "And to be honest, I wasn't really thinking that clearly. Chick had a ready supply of Shrooms, man, plus a whole lotta other 'natural herbal remedies.' She said she was on some kind of natural abortive menstrual shit and at the time it didn't seem, you know... retarded."

"Well it wouldn't seem retarded when you're stoned!" Sam snapped. "I can't believe you, Dean! I always thought that, at the very least, you were being careful when you were out screwing every woman you could get your hands on. I never realized you were actually just running around being both stupid _and_ selfish."

"Okay, will you calm down?" Dean whispered harshly. "I get that you're pissed at me, but the time for lectures is kinda past. And believe me, every judgment you want to slug at me's already been dealt my way ten times over by Dad."

_God, Dad_. Sam felt his shoulders slumping in defeat, his anger deflating like hot air leaked from a balloon at the very thought of the sheer rage that would have been John Winchester's upon hearing the news of his eldest son's life-altering mistake. Sam actually felt himself wincing at the very idea.

"Fine," Sam conceded with a heavy sigh. "So you rocked her world for a month while the two of you were stoned and then what?"

"Then nothing," Dean replied with a shrug. "Dad showed up sometime early December. We shagged ass and I never saw Ellie again."

"So then how...?"

"To be honest, I kinda almost forgot about her. Until I got a phone call."

888

August, 2003

The highway was a slick, seething canvas of running water, rain pummeling from the sky as if the heavens had opened up and wept in the very biblical, 40 days and 40 nights kind of way. Dean had to be very careful, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight and his eyes trained on the dim lights of his father's truck ahead, as he sped along, attempting to keep up with his father's grueling pace. He had to suppress a sigh, thinking of his father in the black pick-up, sailing leisurely along with the four-wheel drive that promised relative safety from hydroplaning, while Dean saw his life flash before his own eyes every time his tires fell into the water-filled grooves of the road. The Impala would shudder beneath his feet and he knew that his control of the classic vehicle was tenuous at best – and this was in a car that was prone to fishtail when it _wasn't_ raining a monsoon on treacherous roads. And visibility was so bad that he really had no way of knowing if he was even driving in the right lane. The lack of any kind of oncoming traffic from the opposite lane either meant that he was in the clear, or that no one else was stupid enough to be driving in this weather.

Hating himself for what he was about to do, Dean fished around with a hand inside his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell phone. If his Dad didn't slow down Dean was certain he was going to run off the road, and much as he loved his black beauty of a car, he didn't want to die in it.

"Come on, Dad," he muttered, flipping the phone open with eyes still trained on the road ahead. He was about to scroll through the contacts list to call his father when it suddenly buzzed in his hand.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Dean pressed the talk button.

"Are we trainin' or something here Dad?" he half-joked, "cos if this isn't some kind of high-speed chase exercise in vehicle maneuvering, I'd swear you were trying to kill me."

"Dean?"

The frightened, timid, _female_ voice was most definitely not the voice of John Winchester.

"Who is this?"

"Uh...." The woman on the other line sniffled and took a deep breath before speaking. "It's Lindsey. Um, Lindsey Porter?"

She said her full name as if she were asking a question. She wasn't sure he would remember her, which meant either they had met a long time ago, or their acquaintance had been brief. But then again, when weren't his encounters with women, or even people in general, brief? Lindsey Porter... Lindsey Porter? Wow – didn't ring any bells whatsoever. She sounded hot, though.

"Yeah, hey Lindsey," Dean said brightly, deciding it would look better if he pretended to remember who she was. Chicks liked you to remember their names.

"Ellie Sykes's roommate," she supplied.

Ellie Sykes. _Ellie Sykes_. Right! Seriously hot Wiccan chick with the herb stash from heaven.

"Oh hey, Lindsey!" Dean replied, his voice now ringing with genuine recognition. Though it was a little strange for the roommate to be calling, and not Ellie herself. With that thought, Dean felt his pleasure at having been reminded of his month-long sojourn into hedonism with the leggy blonde Ellie sink like a stone into his gut. Something was obviously wrong.

"What happened?" Dean asked sharply, thinking of that witch and berating himself for not having put a bullet to her. He knew he shouldn't have left her breathing.

"Ummm..." Lindsey took a deep shuddering breath and sniffed loudly, obviously suppressing tears. "Dean, it's not good. You need to get here. You need to get here now."

"Lindsey, what happened?" Dean pressed. It wasn't like he could turn around and head back to Massachusetts, especially not with his father blazing a trail through Noah's flood to get to their next hunt in Seattle.

"It's Ellie, Dean," Lindsey choked out. "The doctors say it's bad – I don't think she's going to... You need to get here now!"

It had to be the witch, Dean thought. Dean had mentioned to Ellie that the bitch had been harming her friends, though he'd deliberately omitted the details as to how she had been doing it, so that at least Ellie would be on her guard in case the bitch decided to continue where she left off after Dean took off for good. He'd wanted her prepared, and had told her to call him if anything suspicious happened. Now it appeared the bitch was back to her old tricks.

"What. Happened?"

"She wanted to tell you," Lindsey suddenly sobbed. "But she didn't want to drag you into it – said you had your own life and wouldn't want to be held back... But now she's dying and she wants you here – she doesn't want her baby raised not knowing where she comes from."

Dean had to blink. Several times. The road ahead was a blur of loud splotches of water pelting against the glass planes of the windshield. The battery of rain pellets overhead was suddenly so loud he thought maybe he couldn't hear. He definitely hadn't heard right.

"What?" he heard himself ask. And wow, was that his voice that sounded so small?

_Fuck – hands on the wheel, Dean! _ The car lurched as he maneuvered it back into the groove of the road.

"What?" he repeated, more loudly this time.

"I'm sorry!" Lindsey continued to sob. "She didn't want you to find out this way. Ellie's pregnant, Dean... Or _was_ pregnant... with your baby. And there were complications and now she's... God, you have to hurry!"

Any other words she might have said were lost to her sobs, and she quickly ended the call, leaving Dean sitting in stunned silence, staring at the phone in his hand as if it might bite him. The car lurched again and Dean eased his foot off the gas, feeling the car losing speed as he prepared to pull over. He had to stop. He had to just... stop.

It was a strange sensation, being cocooned inside the metal and fabric of the car with the storm bashing away outside, pounding to get in, inundating his ears with the constant drumming of a thousand plink, plink, plinks of gargantuan raindrops pummeling metal. To be inside, safe inside the now stationery vehicle, while at the same time being so distinctly outside, sitting outside of himself, feeling far away from his body and from the world and from reality, just listening to the elements trying to force their way _in_. It was surreal.

Too many thoughts were running through his head at one time, jumbling together into a confusing, writhing mass. Snippets of 'whatthefuckamIgonnado?' and 'whythefuckdidn'tshetellme?' and 'howdoIknowit'sevenmine?' paraded in a round, each one singing over the other so that he couldn't pull them apart – like that time that Sammy went to church summer camp when he was six and sang that stupid "Fire's Burning" song and tried to get Dean to do the round with him. Over and over.

But one thought rang out loud and clear, drowning out the others. _I have to get to Massachusetts_.

With trembling fingers he gripped his phone and opened the menu on the display. Contacts. He had to find his contacts list and call his Dad, tell him to turn around. But the sharp rap on the window, while startling him so badly he actually dropped the phone, meant calling his father was no longer necessary. Dean watched as the dark hulking figure rounded the front of the car to the passenger side, prying the door open with a plaintive creak and easing his dripping wet form onto the seat.

"Why the hell have we stopped?" John barked, large beads of rainwater dripping down his bearded face. "We gotta burn rubber if we wanna get out of this storm, son."

Dean swallowed convulsively.

"Dad..." The words wouldn't come. Dean looked up into his father's expectant brown eyes, seeing the impatience and mild irritation already building there and knowing that, as sure as the sun rises in the East, he was going to so thoroughly get his ass kicked. His Dad was going to kill him. And suddenly he was terrified. The words wouldn't come.

"What, Dean?" John pressed, leaning forward as his brow drew together in a frown.

How the hell was he going to tell his father? This was something so monumentally huge – if it was even true – and though it might seem melodramatic to flag this moment as _the_ moment when his life officially ended, Dean knew that he was so seriously dead the minute he opened his mouth. _His. Dad. Was. Going. To. KILL. Him_.

He was a difficult man to please at the best of times: demanding, harsh, critical, and stubborn as a mule. Even when he was performing at his best, when he made no mistakes, when he did everything right, in record time, without breaking a sweat or getting a scratch for his troubles, Dean felt like he could have done it better (at least in his father's eyes). Sam leaving for Stanford had been bad. The Cosmos are raining down fiery vengeance upon you for daring to defy the gods _bad_. You don't walk out on John Winchester without suffering his wrath. Or, if you're Sam, you do – and leave your big brother Dean to suffer said wrath in your stead.

And that was Sam going to college. At least going to college was something John could brag about to his acquaintances, pretending that he hadn't stormed like a raging bull at the betrayal of his son's abandonment to go earn himself a better life. Sam getting a full ride to Stanford was at least something that, rationally speaking, was something to be proud of.

But this? This was so many kinds of fucked up and stupid, and Dean knew before he even spoke one word that his Dad would be beyond disappointed in him. He'd be furious. He'd be let down. He'd be disgusted. He'd be _ashamed_. Because family was everything, wasn't it? That was what John had always taught his boys. Family sticks together: family watches out for its own, takes care of its own. Family is responsible for its members, steps up to the plate and does what needs doin'. And being responsible was rule #1. Knocking up some random chick spat in the face of everything that family was.

"Dean, get your head out of your ass, son!" John barked, moved from annoyed now to angry. "We're back on the road. Now!"

He reached for the handle to open the door.

"Wait!" Dean cried, panicked. Then, more calmly, "Wait."

John paused, eyeing his son suspiciously. Then he softened, sensing his son's upset.

"Dean, what is it?"

"We have to go to Massachusetts."

888

All throughout his childhood, and even during his teenaged years, Dean had never been one to be embarrassed by his family. He'd seen other kids rolling their eyes and wanting to shrink into themselves when Mom or Dad said something in public that promptly led to instant mortification. He'd seen kids sidling surreptitiously away from the parent accompanying them, pretending not to know them because it was embarrassing to be out with the 'rents in public. And he had never understood why. But then again, he'd always thought he had the coolest, awesomest Dad ever. John Winchester was a hero who handled guns and who drove a wicked awesome car, and who had the best taste in music and clothes and who had the coolest hunter friends. What was there to be embarrassed about?

Now, at age twenty four, Dean keenly felt, for the first time in his life, that he wished the ground would swallow him whole so that he could be spared another moment of tortuous shame – public shame – because of the antics of his father.

It had been a silent drive to Massachusetts, after the dressing down of a lifetime. Dean would never forget the harsh words his father had thrown at him, about his selfishness and irresponsibility, about being a goddamned fucking slut – he'd actually used the word slut – and about how he had better hope that the baby wasn't his, or so help him God. Dean had weathered the weather for the remainder of the journey in mute resignation, following behind his father's truck with a heaviness in his chest that he hadn't felt since Sam left for Stanford.

But nothing could have prepared him for his father's behaviour when they arrived at the hospital. To say that he'd been belligerent would be like saying water can be kinda wet sometimes. The man had shouted and ranted and caused such a scene that the receptionist threatened to call security. He'd shouted at the doctors when they informed him that Ellie Sykes was two days dead; he'd shouted at Lindsey Porter when she arrived after receiving Dean's frantic call; he'd shouted at the vending machine when it ate his dollar bill without dispensing the coffee he'd attempted to buy. And Dean had been helpless to stop him, because the man was on a rampage and, it seemed, was also on a mission.

"I want to get to the bottom of this now," John seethed at the social worker who'd been assigned the case. With the baby's birth mother now dead, and no family to claim the child, social services had been dispatched to take care of the placement of the parentless child. It appeared there were also prospective adoptive parents chomping at the bit to get their hands on little Baby Girl Sykes.

"Paternity test," John had seethed. "Now!"

Dean had been dragged along like a scolded child, watching despondently as his father 'took control' of the situation. He had insisted that there was no need to see the baby until paternity was established. No point in forming any attachments to a child that may or may not be Dean's. Four tortuous days of waiting, not even being able to see the baby that might be his, while they waited for the results to come in from the lab. Lindsey was there throughout the whole ordeal, speaking on behalf of poor Ellie, trying to see that her best friend and roommate's wishes were adhered to.

They'd finally received the call from the lab: the results were in. The moment of truth was upon them. The agonizing wait in a crowded waiting room with too small chairs and far too many hushed voices, while the minutes that would decide Dean's fate ticked by in slow motion, was enough to drive him mad. So they talked about Ellie.

"She grew up in the system," Lindsey explained sadly, trying to ignore the pacing caged tiger that was John Winchester. "She swore she wouldn't let her kid grow up not knowing where she came from."

Dean nodded absently. He could understand that. If the baby was his, he didn't know if he could just walk away from it either. Not that he'd really be in any position to give a child a good or safe home – quite the opposite, in fact – but the idea of leaving his own flesh and blood behind to be raised by someone else turned his blood cold.

"So she tried to do the whole birthing at home thing?" Dean whispered, not wanting to upset his father any further with what he deemed to be unnecessary conversation.

"Yeah," Lindsey replied, wiping a tear away as it formed in her eye. "You know how she was with the whole 'natural' living thing."

Dean laughed hollowly in his gut.

"Yeah," he said, wishing he could strangle Ellie for being so freaking stupid, and at the same time wanting to cry at the thought of her dying in childbirth. Who the fuck dies in childbirth anymore?

"You know there's a reason we have hospitals and neo-natal units and all that shit, right?" Dean found himself whispering harshly. "What the hell did she think she was doing, giving birth at home with a goddamned midwife?"

Lindsey's expression darkened.

"Hey, midwives were delivering babies for hundreds of years before modern medicine came along," she said, feeling automatically defensive for her recently deceased friend.

"Yeah, and the death rate for women in childbirth was also like, what, one-in-four?" Dean shook his head ruefully. "Leave it to Ellie to become a fucking obsolete statistic!"

"She was just doing what she thought was right," Lindsey defended hotly. "It's not like having a baby in a hospital is cheap – and it's not like you were helping out!"

"Hey!" Dean hissed. "I wasn't given much choice on the helping out front. You might remember that _you_ were the one that called me to fill me in on all this! I'm not a freakin' psychic, Lindsey! I couldn't have known about this when she didn't bother to tell me."

And at that Lindsey visibly deflated.

"I know," she admitted. "I'm sorry. It's just... I just... I can't believe she's gone."

Dean felt bad for making her cry, or for reminding her of the tears she'd apparently managed to stop shedding since Ellie had died six days ago. But it was feeling decidedly crowded in the pediatrics wing of the hospital. Between his pacing father, the weeping Lindsey, the in-and-out doctors and nurses, and the prospective adoptive parents who'd already been brought in on behalf of social services, Dean felt like his entire life was being observed under a microscope.

It felt wrong that the would-be adoptive parents were here now. They'd swooped in like vultures, desperate for a healthy white baby in need of a home, their home, and since finding out that there may be someone present to lay claim to their prize, someone with a possible biological connection who would have legal custody of her, they'd refused to leave. And he couldn't help it, he could feel their eyes on him, sizing him up, taking stock of his attributes as if appreciating the genes that would be inherited by their soon-to-be bundle of joy. He really wanted to tell them to go fuck themselves.

The past four days, since the swab of Dean's DNA had been taken to be processed in a lab God only knew where, had been the longest of his life. Now they were all gathered and waiting at the hospital, waiting for the results to be revealed so that Dean could collect his child or leave a parentless orphan in the capable hands of social services.

"Dean Winchester?" a man in a white lab coat called out to the assembled crowd, and Dean felt his hands go both hot and cold with dread.

The man opened his mouth and in that instant Dean couldn't say in his heart of hearts what he was hoping to hear, that he was a father or that he was in the clear.

"We have the results of the paternity test," the man said simply, tucking a clipboard under his arm.

Dean swallowed hard, feeling all eyes on him.

"Baby girl Sykes is a genetic match. Congratulations. You're a father."

And just like that, his whole world changed.

888

Dean approached the hospital incubator/crib as if walking through a haze. It was surreal to be standing here, even after six days of imagining himself standing here – two of them spent worrying about how he and Ellie would manage to raise a child while not being married or even in a relationship, and the other four spent imagining doing it completely on his own because Ellie was dead – and yet here he was, his body moving of its own accord as he took one fateful step after another until he was there, peering over the edge of a white crib railing and onto the writhing, wriggling mass of gurgling legs and arms that belonged to his daughter. _His daughter_.

The pale pink face that met his eye was still slightly squashed from childbirth, but her eyes were open – dark baby blues peering intently up at him. Her mouth was open, her tongue poking bubbles through pink gums. And she had the tiniest cleft in her chin. _Like me 'n Sam_, Dean thought.

Dean inched his way closer, afraid to touch her because _what the fuck am I supposed to do with a baby?_ He hadn't held a baby since Sam was one, and back then he'd been too young to realize what a fragile thing young life was, how easily a single mistake could shatter that life forever. Now he was positively terrified, a tremor running up his spine and leaving cold beads of sweat to trickle down his back beneath his t-shirt. He thought he might throw up.

"Go ahead," the nurse beside him urged. "She won't bite."

Dean smiled weakly, feeling even more like he might throw up, and reached into the crib. Then he paused, froze. He looked at the nurse helplessly, a deer in the headlines expression clearly etched across every inch of his face.

"Here, let me help you," she said soothingly, bending down and retrieving the wriggling bundle from the crib and placing the tiny weight in Dean's waiting arms. "There's nothing to it, see?"

And really, there wasn't. This wasn't so bad at all. Baby Girl Sykes – or rather, Winchester – weighed almost nothing at all. Just a tiny little squiggly thing, with the most perfect pink little toes and fingers Dean had ever seen. He was staring at them like an idiot, counting them just to make sure that everything was where it was supposed to be. How strange that a romp in the sack, the electrifying, toe-curling gratification of sex, could lead to this. This perfect little thing looking up at him with perfect faith and trust, as if this is where he was always meant to be, and she had just let him in on the secret.

Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, Dean eased himself into a nearby chair. Sending the overwhelming emotions playing out for the young father, the nurse took her leave. Now Dean was alone.

So this was it. This was his baby, his child, his daughter. This was Baby Girl Winchester, the nameless little person who may or may not be in his charge for the rest of his natural life. No pressure.

And that yuppie-looking couple waiting outside? Well they'd just have to wait until Dean made up his mind, wouldn't they? After all, this wasn't the kind of decision that could be made in one day. He'd have to think about it. He'd have to weigh the pros and cons. He'd have to endure his father's lectures about responsibility and the dangers of hunting and how their lives didn't allow for small children. _'The timing's just not right, kiddo.'_ But in the end it all came down to what he decided. It was up to Dean.

"Whaddya think?" Dean whispered. "You wanna go live with Mr. And Mrs. Yuppie, be Baby Girl Yuppie? Or you wanna get your pink little butt dragged across the country in the coolest car ever to grace the highway?"

No surprise, she didn't reply.

"You gotta tell me what to do," he said, feeling suddenly desperate and alone. "If you wanna stay with your crazy, sexy, cool dad, you gotta give me a sign or somethin'." His throat was getting very tight, and it hurt to swallow. And were those tears misting in his eyes? _Aw, crap!_

"I never thought it would be like this, you know?" he said to her, to which she replied by blowing another spit bubble and licking at her gums happily. "Not that I ever saw myself with the white picket fence and the two kids with the dog, or whatever, but I never thought I'd be doin' this alone."

He inhaled a hitched breath and allowed a few tears to fall.

"What should I do?" he whispered dejectedly, feeling the heavy weight of the life in his hands, even though she almost weighed nothing at all. "What should I do, huh Mary?"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Dean knew he'd already placed the first nail in his own coffin. He'd just named her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Notes:**

I apologize for any blatant errors. I wrote this pretty much in one go, so my eyes are now officially glazed over. And since I don't have a beta, obviously all errors are mine.

* * *

When Dean finally emerged an hour and a half later, it was to find that everyone, Lindsey, his father, the prospective adoptive parents, were all still waiting for him wearing expectant expressions on their faces. He'd left the baby, Mary, in the crib so that he could walk around a bit, mull things over in his head without her being there to cloud his judgment. At seeing him emerge empty-handed, Lindsey's expression fell in defeat. The Yuppies were looking bright-eyed and hopeful. John Winchester, however, was unreadable.

"I uh," Dean said, not sure who he was saying it to. "I need to take a walk or something. Clear my head."

"So you haven't decided – " Lindsey began.

"No," Dean assured her sharply. "I haven't."

She heaved a sigh of relief, but everyone else in the room involved in the situation became visibly agitated.

"Son," John began, falling into step behind him. "You need to sit down and buck up, kiddo. The sooner we do this... Well, it's just best for everyone that we don't drag this out."

Dean could see the Yuppies over his father's shoulder, both looking so hopeful, nodding their agreement, certain that John would influence Dean to make the right decision.

"Not now, Dad," Dean said tiredly, turning away.

"Dean!" John called sharply, and it wasn't the voice of a father calling to a son. That was Sergeant Winchester speaking. Sergeant Winchester issuing an order.

Dean froze, his guts cold like ice while his hands burned with feverish heat.

"Can we not do this here?" Dean asked, practically begged, his eyes imploring. He couldn't have an audience for this. It would break him, make him more vulnerable in front of the angry bear than he already felt. And he certainly didn't want to be tag-teamed by the hopeful Baby-Snatchers who were looking at John like he was their last hope of salvation.

John shook his head and took a deep breath. Dean was sure he was suppressing a growl. Instead, he grabbed his son by the elbow and led him away from the waiting room, down a corridor, and pushed him forcefully into a nearby stairwell.

"We gotta do this now, Dean," John insisted. "I know you wanna just bury your head in the sand and pretend that we got all the time in the world, but we don't."

"Dad..."

"Now that nice young couple out there can give that baby a real good home," he went on. "They got good jobs and a nice house. Steady income, stable environment... All things that a child needs growing up."

And as if that was their cue to enter the scene, the Yuppies came through the door to join the Winchesters in the stairwell.

"Do you freakin' mind?" Dean snapped.

"Zip it, Dean!" John ordered. "I want them here."

"Yeah, well I don't!" Dean retorted. He wasn't one to talk back to his father, but at times like this he somehow found the strength to at least hold his own. It was rare, almost unheard of, but it did happen.

"Look, Dean is it?" Mrs. Yuppie said tentatively, carefully, choosing her words with delicacy. "I know this has all got to be overwhelming for you. I mean, you just found out that you're a father, and here we are barging in trying to make claims on what's yours..."

"That about sums it up," Dean said challengingly, meeting her eyes with a blank, level gaze.

"But we're not the bad guys here," she insisted, offering a weak smile. "We just want to give that baby girl a proper home. We've been trying for years to have a baby and now we feel like this is God giving us our chance."

Her eyes were so hopeful, and her husband took her hand and gave it a squeeze. Dean felt his blood growing colder. Was she fucking trying to convince him of something, slapping him in the face with that 'proper home' bullshit?

"Yeah?" Dean dared, heat rising in his face. "You ever stop to think that maybe _God_ was trying to tell you something there? Like maybe parenthood's not for you?"

"Dean!" John admonished.

"No, it's all right," Mr. Yuppie assured them, laying out a hand to hold John back from taking any further menacing steps towards his son. "I'm glad you brought it up, Dean, because it's a valid point. Parenthood's not for everyone."

Dean wished there was a mute button so that he could prevent himself hearing what the man was going to say – he didn't need to hear it, but he had a feeling it was going to be profound.

"I love my wife," Mr. Yuppie said, his voice thickening with pride. "I love her with everything in me, and I know that she was born to be a mother – that she'd be the best mother any child could ever ask for. And I know that she would love that baby girl in there so much, it'd be honouring Ellie's memory."

Dean's chest was far too tight, his throat constricting like someone, maybe the slithering tendrils of fate, had wrapped its icy fingers around his neck and begun to squeeze.

"I know you don't wanna do this, kiddo," John said, his voice sounding softer now, but far away, like Dean was listening to him through a big empty tunnel. "But you have to do what's best for the baby. Life on the road is no place for a child. The Andersons can give her a good home, a good life. She'll never want for anything."

_Like I did?_ Dean thought, but didn't say.

"It could be an open adoption," Mrs. Yuppie (or rather, Anderson), added, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "We could arrange for visitations."

The words 'adoption' and 'visitation' suddenly hit him like a sledgehammer to the gut. The abstract concept of someone else raising his child had been just that – abstract. But words like 'adoption' and 'visitation' spoke of permanence, separation in reality. Not theoretical lives of candy canes and gumdrops and sunshine and daisies, but real life my-kid's-being-raised-by-someone-else reality. Adoption.

"I can't!" Dean choked, gulping for air. "I can't do this."

"It's okay," Mrs. Yuppie cooed. "We'll take care of everything."

"Dean, you can't be what she needs," John said, laying a hand on his son's shoulder. "Do the right thing and let these people be for her what you can't."

Dean thought maybe he couldn't breathe. This was all happening too fast. They were talking as if the decision had already been made, though in John's mind it probably already had. If he had to he'd give the order, and his good little soldier, he was sure, would obey. It was the way the Winchester family worked. It was how they kept the peace, how they survived through grueling hunts, long hours on the road, nights spent in cramped quarters with no privacy. Dean fell in line so the Winchesters could survive. There was no question in John's mind that, eventually, Dean would fall in line now.

"But what about...?" Dean could barely form the words, his chest was so tight. "What about keeping her safe?"

"We'll keep her safe," Mr. Yuppie assured him, but Dean knew his father understood what that question really meant.

"Dad, what about the family business?" Dean pressed. "How do I know that she'll be safe living the apple pie life with these Baby-Snatcher vulture people, huh?"

"You know our business is no place for a baby, Dean," John warned.

"But it was okay for Sam?" Dean challenged. "He was just a baby."

"That was different," John insisted. "I had you to help me."

"And I don't have you to help me?"

John seemed to freeze, his words caught in his throat. Then he heaved a sigh.

"Dean, please, be reasonable," he said at last. "You can't seriously think we'd be okay on the road with a baby. Two grown men with a little girl? In our line of work?"

"Worked for Dansen, Gutenburg, and Selleck," Dean quipped, the first hint of his trademark grin making an appearance on his pale but handsome face.

"Dean..."

"Look," Dean said, all joking aside now. "I don't know if I'd be a good Dad or not, but I've never been one to turn my back on my family. You think _now's_ a good time for me to start?"

"Goddamnit Dean!" John snapped, his voice raising. "This isn't about turning your back on your family!"

"Yeah? Then what is it?"

The Yuppies took a collective step back.

"Maybe we'll just step out into the hallway," Mrs. Yuppie said quietly. They turned and snuck back into the hallway, unnoticed by either Winchester.

"I can't watch my son go the same fucking route I did, okay?" John shouted. "I can't watch you make the same goddamned mistakes I did!"

Dean was stunned into silence.

"You think this is the life I wanted for you, or for my grandkids?" John went on. "A single Dad, like me, dragging his kids through all that fucking darkness, and danger, on this hell crusade?"

"Dad..."

"I can't watch another generation of Winchester go down this road, Dean!" John shouted. "It was bad enough livin' it the first time – but to watch you go down that same road, makin' the same mistakes I did? It'll kill me!"

"Dad, come on," Dean soothed. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay."

"You don't get it, Dean," John argued, shaking his head in despair.

"No, Dad, I do," Dean replied. Then he huffed a laugh. "I really, really do."

Dean watched as his father quirked a questioning eyebrow.

"When we were growin' up," Dean explained, "I always knew that, no matter how bad it was, or how hard it got, you had your reasons. I didn't always know what those reasons were, but I always knew you had 'em, and that they were good ones. But mostly I remembered Mom, and it all made sense, you know? I remembered Mom..."

John sniffed.

"She was really somethin'," John said wistfully.

"Yeah, she was," Dean agreed. "And evil came and took her, Dad. Came right into our house. Now we don't know why it did, but it came after our family. It came after Sam probably, I mean it happened right over his freakin' crib... but Mom stopped it..." He paused and made sure his father was listening. "And it could come after Mary, too."

John's head shot up, his dark eyes boring into the too green, red-rimmed eyes of his son.

"Mary?" He coughed and cleared his throat. "You named her Mary?"

Dean nodded.

"Ah, well, fuck!" John growled, plunking himself down on the bottom step so that he was hunched in a seated position. Dean scrunched down next to him and sat with him a long moment in companionable silence.

"Will you at least come see her?" Dean asked quietly. "See her and then maybe come help me... you know... decide?"

John took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Yeah," he said, sighing heavily. "Yeah."

He owed him at least that much.

888

John Winchester had to try very hard to stifle a laugh. This was it. He was done for. He knew it the moment he peered over the rim of the crib and saw the tiny little angelic face – a face that looked so much like Dean when he was a baby that it actually took his breath away. Instantly he was carried back to that day at the hospital, looking down at Mary with her golden locks frizzing about in a tangled mess, her cheeks flushed from exertion, her eyes slightly dulled with pain and exhaustion, but a contented smile playing at her lips at the tiny, squiggling little person in her arms. Dean had been a force of nature from the moment he was born, with the healthiest set of lungs and pipes any parent had ever seen. From day one he'd been all or nothing, doing nothing by halves: when that baby boy smiled it was always megawatt, blinding, radiating with immeasurable light; when he cried it was an ear-splitting bellow that could make ears bleed; when he laughed it was with his whole body, an infectious sound that made everyone around him laugh.

And now John felt like he'd been transported back in time, seeing that little face, remembering all the hopes and dreams he'd had for his boy, and feeling keenly that they were so close to seeing those hopes dashed again, with a new life that was essentially a clean slate. With this baby they had a chance to do it right, and maybe they were on the brink of royally screwing everything up.

But instead of voicing his concerns, he simply allowed himself to smile.

"She's beautiful," he whispered, his eyes shining with fat sloppy tears just waiting to make their escape and prove to his son what a weepy old wuss his dad really was.

"Well yeah," Dean scoffed, as if that much was obvious. "Dude, have you seen me?"

John watched as his son leaned over the crib and gingerly lifted the delicate bundle up in his arms, an instant smile melting across his features as her weight settled into his arms. He turned to look at his old man with the goofiest grin of contentment, his arms stretching out slightly to offer the precious package.

"You wanna hold her?" Dean asked.

"Ah, no," John heard himself saying. "I, uh... I can't, son."

This was all too fucking real, and he still had a point to make, no matter how much his son didn't want to hear it. He had to get through to Dean, make him see what was clearly right in front of his face, make him understand that there was a bigger picture here than just the sweet lulling lullaby of this nursery and that baby.

But Dean just shrugged and turned his gaze back to the baby in his arms, easing himself into a nearby chair and sinking into it with a contented sigh.

"You know the nurse said that in a couple of months she'll probably, like, double in size?" Dean said absently. "That's freakin' nuts, man."

"Dean..."

His son's eyes shot up to meet his, recognizing the tone that clearly said 'we need to talk' when words did not.

"Kiddo..."

"I can't do it, Dad."

John shook his head.

"Dean," he said, more sternly now, though trying to be more tender, trying to convey sympathy and understanding even as he was about to disembowel his eldest. "Dean, you have to listen to me. I know you never asked for this, but now that it's here you're gonna have to step up to the plate and be a man. Be a father."

"Well yeah," Dean said, half smiling but looking slightly incredulous at the same time. "It's what you always taught me, right?"

"I know," John admitted, sighing wearily. "But Dean... There are times when you gotta make the difficult choice and be a different kind of man. The man who can let the ones he loves go so they can have something better... so they can have what's best for them."

"Like you did with Sam?" Dean said testily, and that was probably the first time the kid had ever said a damned word about what went down with Sam when he left for Stanford.

"Cos I seem to recall you sayin' something about not giving a damn about what he wanted, and then disowning him for takin' off to have a _better_ life."

"We're not talking about Sam," John warned, not willing to be sidetracked. "We're talking about that baby and what's best for her."

"Being with us is what's best for her," Dean said stubbornly.

"Is it?" John demanded. "Dean, she'll grow up just like you did, missing out on all the tings you missed out on. She'll have the same fear watching her daddy come home all beat to hell that you had. Remember how much fun that was?"

John thought he saw his son shrink a little.

"She'll never have regular friends, she'll be constantly at risk of being the next victim of the things that we hunt... And every time you walk out that door to take on the next evil sonofabitch, you could be leaving her an orphan."

"But..."

"I know you, Dean," John said. "I know you'll do what's right, and that you'd do everything in your power to protect her. That's just who you are. But she could grow up to have everything you ever wanted her to have. These people – the Andersons? They're good people. She'd have every opportunity to make something of herself. She'd grow up never knowing what it's like to be afraid, to be hungry, to be lonely... You could do right by her by giving her that chance. This isn't about what you want. It's about what she needs."

John thought maybe his heart was breaking, because he could see his son's resolve wavering, could see the words sinking in and ringing true, could almost imagine the images that were swirling around in the boy's head – pictures of a little girl in pigtails swinging on a swingset in her back yard, playing with a golden retriever, blowing out birthday candles amid a crowd of other smiling children at a birthday party. Dean's green eyes were glassy with unshed tears as another life for his daughter painted its picture on his memory.

"You have to let her go, Dean," John whispered, driving in that final nail. He knew his son well enough to know that he would do the right thing. It would kill him, but he'd do the right thing.

Dean bit his lip, his eyes downcast as he looked at the sleeping baby in his arms – his baby – and his head seemed to twitch ever so slightly. Then he nodded. John knew then that he'd have to find a bar quickly when this was over, so that he could wash his sin away in as much whiskey as his liver would soak up. Maybe more.

"Come on, kiddo," John said, finally reaching out to take the baby from his son's now pliant arms. It might be his last chance to hold her, after all. "Let's put her down and go have a talk with the Andersons. Maybe call the social worker...? Get everything sorted out?"

Another weak nod, and a sniff. John's hands trembled as he ambled over to the crib and gently laid the sleeping bundle back into its bed. He would go to Hell for this. But it needed to be done. That baby needed a life free from the horrors of hunting.

Dean sat in the chair in silence for a full two minutes before stirring, but when he did his movements were slow, sluggish, as if his limbs weighed too much to lift them without a struggle.

"Son...?"

"Just gimmie a minute," Dean said quietly, turning his back on his father to attempt to compose himself.

"Sure, kiddo," John replied, taking a step back.

He watched as Dean slowly approached the crib, maybe taking one last look, solidifying his resolve to do something that was tearing him up inside to do. It was why he hadn't wanted Dean to have any contact with the baby until they knew the paternity results. He knew he'd get attached. For all his swagger and bluster about being completely out of touch with his feelings, Dean was at heart a family man. His own flesh and blood would call to him, tug at his heartstrings like celestial fingers plucking at a harp. And seeing him now, his shoulders slumped and now shaking with what was unmistakably a silent sob, John knew that his son hadn't merely become attached to Mary – he had somehow conjoined with her.

Fuck!

John took his leave. His chest was heaving with laboured breaths, and he felt strangely light-headed, like he might drop like a stone and faceplant on the linoleum floor at any second. _Huh_. He wondered idly when he'd become such a damned lightweight. Winchesters don't faint.

"Mr. Winchester?"

_Oh fucking fuck off!_ John thought, but turned at the sound of Mrs. Anderson's voice. She and her husband were waiting, hand in hand, their faces pale and terrified looking.

"What's the verdict?" Mr. Anderson asked, and John couldn't help but think that Dean's Baby-Snatcher nickname was fitting. They were like freakin' vultures, swooping in with the scent of fresh blood.

Not quite able yet to form words (feeling somewhat on the emotional side himself), John merely nodded a yes, to the immediate relief of the young couple. They sighed together and clasped all four hands almost in prayer, their faces beaming.

"I should give Mom a call," Mrs. Anderson said, her voice light on the exhale.

Dean had yet to emerge from the nursery, so that left John alone with the husband. Great.

"You did the right thing," the man said solemnly. "I'm sure it must be hard for him, but this really is in everyone's best interest."

John didn't reply. He didn't give half a shit what was best for the Andersons. He only cared about Dean and that baby girl. They were the only ones that mattered in this.

"That baby is really something," the man went on. "Seems like she has everyone getting attached from the moment they lay eyes on her, huh?" He laughed awkwardly, a nervous laugh that John found irritating. "I mean, your son's only just seen her for the first time a couple of hours ago, and already I'd say he's in love."

"You fixin' to change my mind?" John growled. He was in no mood to make small talk with the bastard who was going to provide the 'better life' for his granddaughter.

"NO!" Anderson replied, his voice high and desperate. "I'm only saying that he got attached pretty quickly. Letting his emotions rule, you know? It's lucky he had you here to steer him straight, or else he might have made a decision that he'd regret later."

That's what John was worried about, only it wasn't in the way Anderson had meant it. Now he was worried he'd manipulated his son into giving the child up (which, to be honest, he _had_). It was definitely true that Dean would not have agreed to give the child away if John hadn't been here. It made him feel a little sick. But it had to be done. It was for the best.

"Anyway, I just wanted to thank you," Anderson continued. "That baby means the world to us."

John snorted a laugh.

"Who's accusing who of getting attached too quickly?" John asked archly, suddenly wanting to deck this prick for pretending that his feelings somehow ran deeper than his son's. "Or wait – was it _God_ sending you after the scent of that baby, huh? _God_ led you here?"

At that the man promptly fell silent.

Mrs. Anderson returned soon after, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "Mom's on her way," she said. "She should be here in a few minutes."

John wanted to say something about how presumptuous it was to invite the grandmother-to-be along to see the baby when nothing had been agreed to yet – Dean hadn't even yet shown himself and said with his own lips that the baby was now theirs – nothing had been signed. But Dean's arrival on the scene instantly silenced him.

The boy looked like hell. His eyes were red and slightly puffy, his face pale. It was obvious he'd been crying, though he was trying to appear cool and collected.

"Hey," he said to his Dad, giving him a single nod to indicate that he was okay. John nodded in return.

"So..." Dean drawled.

"Look, I just want to thank you," Mrs. Anderson suddenly blurted out. "You're a brave young man – and you're doing the right thing."

John didn't think it was possible, but Dean actually smirked. Smirked.

"You think so?" Dean asked. "Well let's get one thing straight, sister. Just 'cos Social Services called you on board to claim the next available baby doesn't mean _I_ chose you. So before you go counting those chickens, let's sit down and have a nice little chat so that _I_ can decide if you're the kind of people I want raising my daughter."

And there was a fire in his too bright green eyes that promised he meant business. Dean wasn't going to roll over on this one. Oh no, he was going to make these yuppies sing for their supper. He was going to make them _beg_.

888

The muted pastel colours of pinks and blues and yellows and greens in the family room, with the large-eyed cartoon ducklings, bunnies, puppies and kittens scattered here and there along the walls, did little to ease the tension around the table of assembled people. The Andersons' mother-in-law, Alice, had arrived, and she was doing nothing to hide her excitement at the prospect of a much-coveted grandchild. Her enthusiasm was causing that muscle in Dean's jaw to twitch, and John knew that Dean had taken an irrational dislike to the woman the moment he laid eyes on her.

"My, you are a handsome young man, aren't you?" Alice said, beaming and breathless. "I bet she's going to grow up to be one pretty little girl, huh? Her mother must have been very beautiful...?"

Dean's expression was priceless: amused incredulity.

"Is she for real?" he asked.

"Mom, please!" Mrs. Anderson begged. "Not now."

"So what do you do for a living?" Dean asked. John almost laughed at the idea of his son caring about what anybody did for a living, considering the kid hadn't worked an honest day in his life – unless you counted the occasional job he'd taken at Singer's Salvage Yard. But he certainly had a right to ask.

"I'm the District Manager for Morgan Mutual Insurance," Tom Anderson replied. "And Angela here is a freelance artist."

"So you work at home?" Dean asked, his gaze shooting to the woman. He would like the idea of an at-home parent looking out for his kid.

"Yes," Angela said. "I have an office. It's right next to the nursery."

"You guys already have a nursery?"

Both Andersons nodded.

"We've been trying to have a baby for a few years now," Tom said somberly.

"Huh." Dean's reply was non-committal. "So how do you feel about spanking?"

Now this part could be amusing, John thought. Dean had never been one for soft parenting. He'd been spanked as a child – oh Lord had he been spanked as a child – and had never seemed to hold a grudge for it. If anything, he was usually first to admit that he'd earned his licks for being such an insufferable trouble-maker growing up. It was true that he'd been the obedient little soldier at home and on the hunt, but at school and anywhere else not tightly controlled and regulated by his father, Dean had been hell on two legs. He wondered what stance his son was going to pretend to take now, for the sake of this couple.

"We don't really believe in it," Angela said right away. "I've always believed that common sense works best."

Dean arched an eyebrow.

"Right, because all your non-existent kids were perfectly reasonable when you applied the common sense, huh?" He almost seemed amused.

"We've read up a lot on parenting," Tom explained, trying to save his wife further embarrassment. "Plus, we've been around to observe some of the dos and don'ts from family and friends with their kids."

The conversation, or rather, interrogation, went on from there. Dean asked them about everything: their cleaning habits, their religious beliefs, their political affiliations, their taste in rock music, their knowledge of proper car maintenance and repair.

"Well what if they break down on the side of the road?" he whispered harshly to his father after that question had earned him a slap to the back of the head.

"They'll call Triple A," John said dryly.

"What about fighting?" Dean asked suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Fighting," Dean said, shrugging. "You gonna teach her how to fight?"

All three non-Winchesters looked slightly aghast.

"No, of course not," Angela assured them.

Dean folded his arms across his chest and scowled. Then he shook his head.

"Dean..." John warned.

"That's no good," Dean said at last, still shaking his head. "I gotta know she's going to be able to look out for herself."

"We'll look out for her," Tom promised solemnly. "She'll go to the best schools, and we live in a really safe neighborhood. She won't have to 'fight to survive' while we're around."

Dean scoffed.

"And when she's on a date and some douche bag won't take no for an answer?" Dean asked. "You gonna be there to fight him off then?"

"Dean..." John warned, more loudly this time.

"Cos like Alice said, she's gonna be a real looker," Dean continued. "You gonna be able to teach her how to protect herself?"

"Dean, that's enough!" John admonished. "I think the Andersons have answered all your questions."

But Dean was still shaking his head.

"This isn't right," he mumbled, seemingly to himself. "This doesn't feel right, Dad. Maybe we should see about someone else?"

"Oh no, please!" Angela Anderson begged, her face paling. "Please, just give us a chance! Maybe you could come by our house and see the place? Get an idea of the kind of home we keep? Please, don't take this away from us!"

"If you need time, we can wait!" Tom added, grabbing his wife's hand again and squeezing as if that limb was the anchor holding him in place.

But Dean was still shaking his head, growing more agitated by the moment.

"Dad..." his eyes were pleading. "They can't even keep her safe from human monsters... What are they gonna do about the monster in the closet, or under the bed?"

"You don't have to worry, Dean," Angela promised. "She'll never have reason to be afraid as long as she's with us. She'll only know love and security and safety. I promise you!"

But they didn't know the things that John and Dean knew. They didn't know about the things in the dark. They didn't know about the kinds of vile creatures that preyed upon children. They didn't know about fire demons and mommies bleeding on the ceiling in a swirl of flame and ash.

It always came back to Mary – _his_ Mary – and the night the truth about what's really out there stole all innocence from the Winchester clan. Dean couldn't walk away from his child for the same reason John couldn't walk away from his mission: evil was out there. So many times after Mary's death John had considered giving his boys up for adoption. It had been like a sweet, balmy kiss on his forehead, promising safety and relief and a better life for his boys than John could provide. Hunting was no life for children; it was true. And so many times John had thought his decision to keep his boys with him, to drag them along on his crusade, had been a selfish one. They could have had normal if he'd let them go. They could have grown up without knowing fear, without constantly looking over their shoulders for the next bad thing to come nipping at their heels. They could have lived better than what John gave them.

But they wouldn't have been safe. That better life was an illusion and John knew it. It was why he'd clung to his boys, his last ties to Mary, with everything he had.

And it was why Dean couldn't let go.

"She'd be missin' out on a whole heckuvalot, Dean," John said wearily. "You know we don't have the money to give her the things she deserves. No Playstations or video games or college."

"Sammy went to college," Dean replied, grinning. "He just had to work for it."

The Andersons were near panic now, the opportunity so recently laid out for them slipping away as Dean's eyes began to light up with the faintest spark of hope.

"I know this has got to be hard for you," Tom Anderson said, his voice sounding desperate now. The man's wife had begun to cry, and the mother-in-law was wringing her hands like an old washer woman straight out of a Dickens novel. "But we can make it worth your while... You could be compensated..."

_Oh God_ it was the wrong thing to say.

"What?" Dean asked, his eyes sharper than ever now.

"You don't have to walk away empty handed," Tom went on, gulping for air now. "Please, I'm sure that an arrangement can be made."

And the bastard was pulling out his wallet.

"Compensated?" Dean asked.

"Yes, please!" Tom said. "For... all the trouble you've been through... to help pay for..." he gulped again, "travel expenses. Maybe to treat yourself and your father to... a nice vacation...? How does fifty-thousand sound?"

If Dean's mind hadn't been made up before, it certainly was now.

Even as the stone sank to his stomach, John felt the heavy weight pressing on his shoulders lifting. This whole discussion of adoption and future plans had been twisting his guts into knots, and the pain he knew would rest with his son for the rest of his life after giving up his own flesh and blood had weighed so heavily upon his conscience that John felt he might never be able to look at his own face in the mirror again. But that was all slipping away. He could see it in his son's eyes, in the set of his jaw, the bearing of his whole being.

Resolve.

Dean stood up, his confidence suddenly bolstered as his resolve solidified with finality. Oh yes, his mind was made up.

And just like that it became official. John Winchester was a Grandpa.

**End Notes:**

Coming soon: the joys of parenting! Dean gets a taste of what it's like to be a single dad, and John isn't going out of his way to make it easy.


	4. Chapter 4

_October 31, 2005_

Dean turned off the ignition and took a deep breath. Sam watched him as he sat silent and still, reliving those horrible moments of indecision at the hospital.

"God Dean," Sam whispered. "I wish you'd told me. I could've... I'd have been in your corner, man."

Dean smiled, that tight-lipped smile that was meant to be reassuring when he didn't have the words.

"Dad was in my corner, Sammy," he said with a sigh. "He just wanted to make sure we did what was best for Mary."

God Sam felt tired. Hearing Dean tell the story of how close he'd come to giving his own daughter up for adoption had been both heart-wrenching and exhausting. It had taken everything in him not to cry while his brother stared stoically ahead and retold the tale of hours of anxiety and upset, of gut-churning indecision and worry. But Sam knew his brother would tease him to no end if he broke down and cried about it, and he didn't need to give him any more ammunition than he already had. The hair alone had earned him the nickname Samantha at the tender age of thirteen. Crying in front of him now, without dismemberment or death to blame it on, would be like self-inflicted castration. And Sam liked his balls just fine where they were.

"Ready to head inside?" Sam asked, a grimace-smile dimpling his cheeks. "Jess is a great cook."

"Listen, Sam," Dean said. "Are you gonna help me find Dad or not?"

And right on cue, as if her ears were finely attuned to anything related to her grandfather, Mary piped up from the backseat.

"I wa'my Gumpy!"

Sam heaved a sigh.

"Dean..."

"I need your help, little brother. I can't do this on my own."

"Yes you can," Sam countered. "Jess and I can look after Mary if you need some time to go look for him."

"I wa'my Gumpy!"

Dean shook his head and smiled ruefully.

"I appreciate the offer, but it's not time I need, Sammy. I need your help." He looked his brother in the eye and held his gaze for a moment. "Dad left me this voicemail message, and aside from having some creepy-ass EVP and some cryptic message from some dead chick about never going home, he said something about us all being in danger."

"Dean," Sam tried to argue, feeling even more tired now that they were having this conversation. "I can't just run off with you to find Dad. I've got a really important interview on Monday and it's a seriously big deal."

"So we'll be back before Monday," Dean said casually. Problem solved.

"I don't know, Dean," Sam huffed, rubbing his forehead wearily.

"Well how 'bout we hold off on that until after we've eaten, huh?" Dean turned in his seat to peer at the two year-old. "You hungry, baby?"

"I wa'my Gumpy," she pouted.

"Yeah, I know you do."

They made their way inside the apartment complex without too much trouble, though their arms were full with baby things. Sam thought he spied a pink blanket with a cartoon girl on it bunched somewhere in there, but decided not to comment on it. It was still kind of surreal seeing Dean in father mode, the way he casually unhooked the child from her car seat and pulled her into his arms to rest at his hip, one hand resting under her bum, as if he'd done it a million times – which, of course, he had. It looked so natural on Dean, and yet so alien. Sam thought maybe this was what it felt like to see someone bodysnatched. The Dean he knew had been bodysnatched and replaced with this domesticated... dad.

Jess was waiting for them when they arrived, dinner ready to be served, the places already set at the table. Sam could see the steaming pan of lasagna sitting on the stove. It smelled amazing.

"Get everything sorted out?" she asked casually as she set a pitcher of water onto the table.

Sam kissed her temple, while she sort of missed grazing his cheek with her lips as she watched Sam's big brother lay out a blanket on the living room floor before settling the toddler there on her back. He pulled off her tiny shoes and then made short work of pulling off her tiny blue jeans. He dug around through the duffel bag he'd brought and emerged victorious, grinning like he'd just found a five dollar bill on the side walk, with a clean diaper in his hand.

"All right, stinky," he said. "You know the drill."

"I not stinky, daddy," the little girl giggled. But Dean made a very big show of screwing up his face in disgust and pee-ewing about the mess as he withdrew the dirty diaper and ran a baby wipe along her bottom. His antics sent Mary into fits of giggles, with pauses in between to watch her father make a new face, which inevitably sent her into louder, more infectious giggles than the ones before.

"Somebody call the Health Inspector!" Dean called to no one in particular. "This girl's bum is toxic!"

Mary screeched with laughter, her face turning red as Dean yanked her butt off the ground with one hand at her ankles and then continued to lift her until she was dangling upside down so that both Sam and Jess had a perfect view of her bare pink bum.

"Waaaah!" Mary squealed half in shock, half with unadulterated glee. "An'a hebody cawda Hell Spectre, Daddy!"

Sam wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but it made Dean laugh.

"All right," Dean said with a heaved sigh, feigning defeat. "No Health Inspector. But I suppose I should do something about the half naked little girl, huh? Wouldn't want Uncle Sammy to call Child Services on my ass, would we?"

He eased her back down onto the blanket, and she hiccoughed a laugh, her whole face red from being held upside down. Dean then deftly slid the diaper under her and quickly fastened it. Mary was panting for breath while her daddy slid a clean pair of purple corduroy pants on her.

"Much better," Dean said with a grin. He nabbed her one-handed once she'd climbed to her feet and smooshed a kiss onto her cheek. "You ready to eat?"

"Mmm-hmmm," she said with enthusiasm.

They made their way into the kitchen, Mary staying close to her daddy's legs, and then paused at the kitchen table.

"Crap!" Sam hissed, noticing that there wasn't really anything adequate to seat a two year-old. "We don't have a high chair or a booster seat or anything."

"Nah, it's cool," Dean said, waving a hand. "She can just sit on my lap."

And with that he took a seat at the end of the table and then hefted the tiny blonde up onto his lap. She tilted her head upwards and grinned a big dimpled grin up at her daddy, happy to be sharing a big person chair with him, rather than sitting in a high chair.

"Watch yourself, Sammy," Dean warned, noticing the way his daughter was still looking up at him with that beaming grin. "She's a terrible flirt."

Sam snorted a laugh.

"She's your kid, Dean. I would have expected nothing less."

"Can you grab some ice from the freezer, Sam?" Jess queried as she ran a knife through the lasagna, cutting it into square portions.

"Yeah," Sam said, turning to the freezer and pulling out the ice cube tray. He glided swiftly to the table and attempted to empty the ice cubes into the water pitcher, but they were frozen in place. Then he grabbed the tray by both ends and bent it backwards, only he used a little too much force, causing the cubes to pop out of the tray, falling to the floor with a loud clatter.

The room fell silent as all eyes slid to the mess of ice cubes on the floor.

"Futt!" Mary exclaimed.

Sam turned to the child in slow motion, his eyes wide, and then met his brother's gaze. Dean was half-grinning, half-grimacing, his mouth stretched wide, his teeth clenched tight.

"Did she just – ?"

"She knows she's not supposed to say that," Dean replied sheepishly. "Those are grown-up words, aren't they Mare?"

"Can'I habba binka waddy?" Mary replied, choosing to ignore the matter of the swear word she'd illegally used.

"Mary," Dean admonished.

"Peeease!" she amended, grinning again. Her eyes were twinkling with mischief, another trait she'd obviously inherited from her Dad.

Dean sighed and poured a glass of water, which he held up for the child to take a sip from. But Mary was having none of that. Her chubby hands grabbed at the cup and attempted to pull it from her father's grip.

"I wanna!" she cried, her voice rising in pitch with a distinct whine.

"Quit it," Dean warned, batting her hands away. "Your sippie cup's in the car, Mary, and if I let go you'll spill it."

"Nuh-uh!" she countered, shaking her head emphatically in the negative.

"That's what you said last time and I ended up with a wet crotch."

Mary giggled evilly and tilted her head up again.

"Daddy habba wet cwotch!" she said.

"Drink your water, ya little monkey," Dean countered, narrowing his eyes in an overly dramatized stink-eye.

Mary giggled again and then turned resolutely back to the water in front of her. With one hand to help guide the cup to her face, she opened her little pink mouth and attempted to take a sip, her tiny teeth clanking against the glass. Sam shook his head in wonder and quickly collected the fallen ice cubes off of the floor.

Sam enjoyed watching his brother interacting with Mary throughout the course of the meal. Dean had insisted that Mary would just eat off of his plate, which seemed to work out rather well. Dean would take a bite and then he would spoon a mouthful for Mary to eat. She had her own fork, but more often than not the bits of lasagna, hamburger and cheese ended up back on the plate, rather than in her mouth.

"She just wastes it if you give her her own plate," Dean explained through a mouthful of food. "This way I can finish off whatever she doesn't eat."

"Smart idea," Sam said, grimacing at the sight of his brother finishing off the partially child-goobered remains of lasagna. But Dean didn't seem to mind. Then again, Sam thought, he'd always had an iron stomach and a gag reflex to beat a mortician's.

"So that's quite the vocabulary she's got," Sam said pointedly.

"Yeah, she knows lots of words," Dean said proudly. "You should hear some of the stuff that she comes up with sometimes..." Then he paused. "Oh. You were talking about the swearing, huh?"

Sam nodded.

"Well she spends pretty much every day with me and Dad, Sam," Dean pointed out. "And you know Dad..."

Sam huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, Dean. I know Dad."

888

_August 2003_

"Ellie's got pretty much everything you'll need here," Lindsey said solemnly. "If you want it, take it."

The loft apartment looked somehow smaller than Dean remembered it, now that Ellie Sykes wasn't there to fill up the space with her golden hair. It felt sacrilegious, somehow, being there now without her, rifling through her baby things – the baby things she'd never had a chance to use before she died – knowing that she would never get the chance to use them with the baby she'd carried in her womb for nine months. It made Dean feel like throwing up, and he was ashamed enough that he'd already done that twice since they left the hospital.

"Thanks," was all he said by way of reply.

The truth was they did need pretty much everything. They had no clothes or blankets or diapers or pacifiers or bottles or car seats or washcloths or any other number of random necessities that go along with having a newborn baby. And though Dean hated to admit it, it was certainly true that Ellie wouldn't need them where she was (wherever that was). Most likely she'd want Dean to take it; after all, she'd told Lesley to call Dean, had begged her to summon him to the call of fatherhood. Ellie wanted Dean to have Mary.

Still... Rifling through these things, packing up anything and everything that would fit into the Impala, left him feeling really cold inside.

Lesley had been somber since they arrived at the loft, but she'd been ecstatic and relieved beyond belief when Dean had called her from the hospital, asking her if she could bring Ellie's car seat by. He hadn't quite expected the full, on-the-mouth kiss that she greeted him with when she showed up with the baby seat, her eyes swimming with tears so filled with sadness and sudden pride that she'd reached for him without a second thought and planted the fiercest yet most chaste kiss on his lips that he'd ever received.

It was weird.

Leaving the hospital with his daughter had been surreal, and when they took those first few steps outdoors Dean thought he felt himself stepping out of his own body. That's when he'd thrown up the first time.

He wouldn't soon forget the completely crestfallen looks on the Andersons' faces, and though he knew rationally that he didn't owe them anything, and he certainly didn't owe them his first born child, he still couldn't help feeling guilty within his soul for having been the cause of their dashed dreams and hopes. It wasn't their fault they couldn't have kids of their own, and they really did seem like nice people – the desperate attempt to buy his child notwithstanding. He guessed they'd probably make better parents together than he would on his own.

But it didn't change the fact that Mary belonged with him. She was his daughter, and as long as evil existed while he had breath in him, he was going to protect her. That's what family did. It was the most important lesson he'd ever learned in his twenty-four years on this earth, and he was a damned fool if he ever let himself forget it.

Still, there he was, a single father, his life as he knew it completely and undeniably altered. From this moment forward, every decision that he made would have to factor her into it first. Every job he took from this point on would depend on him being able to find someone reliable to look after Mary. Every money-making scam he pulled, from hustling pool (with the inevitable bar fights that followed) to credit card fraud could bring him under the scrutinizing eye of the law, which would inevitably lead to CPS breathing down their necks. No more partying, staying out all night, hooking up with random chicks whenever he felt like it – because there was a baby who needed looking after. And Dean was pretty sure his Dad wouldn't be offering to babysit while his son went out to find some easy girl in a bar for one of his usual casual fucks.

Nope, everything changed from that moment onward, and no matter how much it terrified him that his own habits would be drastically altered by this decision, nothing compared to his fear of being a bad father to Mary. It was sink or swim now – no turning back. Mary was stuck with him now, and she'd suffer the consequences of every mistake he made as a parent. And who the hell did he think he was, raising a kid on his own, anyway? Dean had some very distinct memories of being a kid and going hungry while his Dad was off for days or weeks at a time on a hunt, having left his boys with dwindling supplies of food and not enough money to replenish them. He remembered sitting up late at night, unwilling and unable to fall asleep because Dad wasn't home yet, and if he fell asleep he might wake up in a world without his Dad in it – a world where John was dead, having been killed by the monster he was hunting. Hell, his childhood was so fucked up, Dean had somehow grown up without having any dreams of his own. He'd just been an empty vessel, filled up and emptied out by his father and brother, used and sucked dry when he was full to the brim and at his best, discarded when he was empty.

What if Mary ended up being the same way? What if this life crushed her spirit into the dust and left her empty and wanting?

That was when Dean threw up the second time.

"We'll have to get some kind of fold-down changing table," John said, breaking Dean from his morose thoughts. "Cos we sure as hell can't fit that thing into the Impala."

Dean frowned at the large wooden dresser/changing table.

"Might fit in the back of your truck," he said thoughtfully, sticking out his bottom lip and pretending to consider it.

"I'll make you ride in the back of my truck," John grumbled, tucking two large duffel bags full of baby things under his arms and stalking out the front door.

"He's just so excited to be a Grandpa," Dean said with a grin.

"I can see that," Harley returned dryly. She was Lesley and Ellie's other roommate, and though she hadn't been at the hospital, she was more than happy to help out the young father as he scoured the loft apartment in search of things he would need for the baby.

"It's a really great thing you're doing here, Dean," she said softly. "I know you two weren't in love or anything, but Ellie always said you were a great guy..."

Dean arched an eyebrow.

"...in bed," she finished, grinning.

Dean grinned back, his cocksure smile back in place.

"Well I don't like to toot my own horn," he said, puffing up his chest in a vain play at all false modesty. "Especially not when I can find a pretty girl to do it for me." And he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"You're unbelievable," she sighed, shaking her head in wonder.

"I try."

When the last of the things had finally been loaded into the car, Dean paused and gave the loft one last look, remembering all the places he'd been naked in it. They'd really had some spectacularly awesome times in that loft.

"So I guess this is it," Dean said, feeling the world begin to close in just a bit tighter around him.

"You'll be fine," Lesley assured, reaching up to give him a tight hug. "You come back here to visit any time you feel like you need a break, okay?"

"As long as you give like a week's notice!" Harley amended.

"Why, you wanna go buy yourself something lacy to wear?" Dean teased.

Harley gave him a wry smile.

"Something like that," she huffed.

"Hate to disappoint you ladies," John barked, "but Fabio here's keeping it in his pants for the next twenty years, or I'll be fixing him a damned chastity belt. And don't you even think I'm kidding, boy."

The lumbering, glowering bear stooped over to pick up the car seat with the slumbering baby in it and promptly stomped away.

"Move your ass, Dean!" he growled over his shoulder. "Double-time, soldier!"

Dean gulped, paling visibly, but attempted a brave smile.

"Is he always like that?" Harley asked.

"Nah," Dean assured her. "Normally he's got a rifle in his hand."

888

"She's crying," John snarked when Dean finally made it to the car.

"What the hell did you do?" Dean demanded, reaching into the car seat and extracting the baby. "She was fine just a minute ago."

"I didn't do anything!" John shot back, his eyes darkening. "And you better watch that tone, Dean! I put up with it in the hospital because there was a lot goin' on, but that attitude ends now. You hear me?"

Dean pretended not to hear him, preferring instead to focus on the screaming infant in his arms. The fact was the day had been exhausting for both Winchesters, and now that the drama from the hospital, with the custody decision made and the baby supplies picked up, both were feeling drained and cranky. It was like coming down off a hard hit of drugs, without the added fun of having been high first. Now they were alone together, with a screaming baby, and tempers were flying high. Dean swallowed convulsively and tried to calm himself. He had no idea how to calm a screaming baby.

"Shh, shh," he cooed. "You're okay... You're okay. I've gotcha."

But soothing words were not soothing enough. Neither was rocking her in his arms. The bottle they'd prepared was spat out with disgust, followed by even louder wailing. Dean winced as the child's face began to redden with upset, her little tongue quivering in her mouth as she bawled to the heavens in baby rage. It seemed she was coming down from the adrenaline high as well, and she was not a happy camper.

"Fuck, Dad! What do I do?" Dean asked, feeling helpless already.

"Change her, maybe?" John suggested.

"We just changed her like five minutes ago."

John shrugged.

"Doesn't mean she doesn't need changing again."

They hurried to the nearest motel and hastily booked a double room so that Dean could change the baby. Both were dismayed to find the diaper was dry.

"Should I try feeding her again?" Dean asked.

"Give it a shot," John said wearily. He was having flashbacks to some of the not-so-pleasant moments from when both Dean and Sam were babies, moments when they'd screamed inconsolably for hours on end. He didn't have the heart to tell his son that the crying was just a natural part of being a baby, and that there might not be anything he could do to make it stop.

Dean did give it a shot again, and it was once again turned down with even louder shrieking. He shifted the baby onto his shoulder so that the length of her body was pressed against his chest, her tiny chin resting on his shoulder. But it didn't seem to help either: she screamed into his neck, nearly deafening him with her cries.

"Is there something wrong with her?" Dean asked, helpless.

John shook his head.

"She's a baby, Dean. Babies cry. Might be some colic. Might be she wants the crib at the hospital."

"But what if something's wrong?" Dean pressed. The idea that she could be suffering, without any means of letting him know what was really wrong with her, had his stomach twisted in knots.

"I'm sure she's fine, Dean," John assured him. "Just give it some time and she'll settle down."

Three hours later Mary was still crying.

"Do they usually cry this much?" Dean practically begged, looking positively frazzled as he paced the room with the infant bawling against his chest as he gently jiggled her against his body. She'd fed for a few minutes, granting them those precious seconds of reprieve from her wailing, and had promptly resumed the screech-attack with more gusto than before.

"I think she hates me," Dean said forlornly. "I'm the crappiest father ever and she's crying because she just saw her chances of going to college walk away with the Andersons."

"Dean, that's enough," John ordered. "Give her back to me."

He held his hands out for Dean to settle the squalling child into his arms.

They'd been playing this game off and on since they got to the motel, trading off in the hopes that she'd settle in a new set of arms. So far it seemed that wasn't working either.

"What if she just never stops crying?" Dean asked, horror-struck at the very idea. "What if this is it, and she just cries until she's eighteen?"

John snorted.

"You gotta grow a pair, son," he cautioned. "Day one of being a Dad and you're already giving it up as a lost cause?"

"I'm not giving up," Dean sulked. "_You're_ giving up..." he muttered grumpily.

"Why don't you go take a walk or something?" John suggested. "You look like you're about to puke again or... cry or something..."

"Am not!" Dean was positively scandalized.

"Just go," John insisted. "I'll hold down the fort 'til you get back. Maybe go see if you can get some of that baby goat's milk or something... Or some of that lactose free milk."

The boy looked at his father like he'd grown a few extra heads.

"What?" John defended. "I had a lot of time to kill at the hospital while you were off mooning over Mary. I read on some pamphlets that babies these days are having issues with lactose intolerance... not like there was a lot of reading material around... And I thought maybe she wasn't liking this formula that we've got her on."

But Dean was grinning now.

"You doin' research on baby health?"

"Shut up and go!" John snapped, but he was smiling now too.

Dean didn't need to be told twice.

He eased his aching body into the Impala, feeling like he'd aged about eighty years in the last eight hours. He'd barely even begun, and already he could tell that being a Dad was hard. The crying was something he'd have to get used to, though he wasn't sure how. It frayed at his already frayed nerves. And he felt horribly inadequate not being able to get her to stop. Weren't parents supposed to have some kind of magic touch that babies just inherently responded to on some deep physical level?

_Deep physical level_... And somehow that thought made him think about sex.

What if he never got laid again? The last time he'd been with a woman had been... what? Over a week ago? By his standards that was a dry spell. Now he was left wondering when he'd ever find a moment to himself to even attempt to coax a woman into bed with him. Plus, his Dad hadn't sounded like he was joking about the whole chastity belt thing.

Then again, he was technically alone now...

He cursed himself for having such a one-track mind. Now that the thought had planted itself in his brain, it would be almost impossible to get rid of it. The fact was he was tense, and when Dean got tense there was usually only one cure: sex. It was like his instant mood restorative, the mother-of-all sedatives. Who needs Valium when you can have orgasms?

_Okay seriously, stop thinking about sex_.

He pulled out of the parking lot and navigated through the streets from memory. There was a baby store that held specialty items, one of the nurses said, somewhere in the mall. He'd check there first, see if they had any suggestions of things that might settle a newborn's stomach better than formula.

It was close to closing time by the time he arrived, and by the looks the forty-something sales lady was giving him, it was clear to Dean that he looked out of place in the pastel store.

"Can I help you?" she asked tentatively. She looked old for her age, Dean thought, with an overly sweet way of speaking that kind of screamed 'Grandma.'

"Yeah," Dean replied. "Maybe... I hope so, anyway. I'm looking for an alternative to milk. Like goat's milk or some kind of lactose milk or something?"

"Okay," she simpered, taking him by an elbow and leading him toward a wall of fridges at the back. "How old is your baby?"

"Six days."

The woman's eyes twinkled with warmth.

"Just brand new," she said, smiling.

Dean nodded.

"We're thinkin' maybe she's not liking the formula we've got her on now, 'cos she won't stop crying and doesn't really want to eat when I try to feed her. But we just brought her back from the hospital today, so there can't be anything, like, _wrong_ with her."

"I see," the woman said, then frowned. "Well with babies that young, I firmly believe that nothing is better than a mother's milk. Breast really is best."

"Definitely agree with you there, but –"

"There are all kinds of nutrients and antibodies in the mother's milk that newborns need to grow strong and healthy."

"You anglin' to lose a sale here, lady?" Dean quipped, feeling annoyed now.

"I really think it would be in your daughter's best interest if you were to try breastfeeding," she said simply. She was still smiling, but the warmth was mostly gone. He could see that she was judging him.

His temper getting the better of him, Dean snapped.

"Do I look like I'm fucking lactating?" waving emphatically at his chest.

The sales lady looked startled, her eyes wide.

"Umm... your wife...?" she tried, but Dean cut her off.

"There's no wife," he said sternly, brandishing his ringless left hand. It was funny how people often mistook the silver ring on his right hand for some kind of wedding band, as though they'd forgotten what hand it was on.

"And Ellie died in childbirth," Dean added, coughing uncomfortably. "So it's just me, okay? Just me and my lack of breasts and life-giving breast milk."

"I'm sorry," the woman stammered. "When you said 'we' I thought... I misunderstood..."

Dean heaved a sigh.

"My Dad's helping me out," he explained. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, then rolled his shoulders, feeling the joints popping as he flexed his muscles, his fingers twitching to simply move. Do something. This quaint little baby shop was making him feel suddenly claustrophobic.

"All right," she said in a calm, placating voice. "Well why don't we get you sorted out here, then?"

Twenty minutes later Dean was back at the motel room, an assortment of baby milks-that-weren't-milk to try out on his finicky daughter. It was quiet when he entered, and he was immediately met with the sight of his father walking in a figure eight around the room, Mary sleeping peacefully in his arms.

"Hey," John whispered, beaming. "She settled down about ten minutes ago."

If Dean didn't know any better, he'd swear the old man was pleased with himself – proud, even.

"That's great," Dean said. "In the meantime, I got some stuff we can try. See if she likes it better than the formula. You want me to take her?"

"Nah," John said absently, his dark eyes returning to the sleeping bundle in his arms. "Don't want to move her in case she wakes up. When I stop she gets restless."

"Oh," Dean replied. So that explained the pacing.

"Why don't you take a nap, dude?" John suggested. "I'll wake you up in a bit. We'll swap places."

Dean's eyes slid to the inviting double bed, feeling the call of sleep like the moon pulling the tides.

"You sure?"

John nodded.

"Get some sleep. Lord knows you're gonna need it."

Dean crawled on top of the covers, not even bothering to remove his shoes, and was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.


	5. Chapter 5

"Aw, now that's just gross!"

John turned from his stack of police reports and newspaper clippings at the sound of his son's latest exclamation. Apparently it was his favourite phrase these days, having said it already three times today.

"What?" John asked.

Dean was holding Mary slightly away from his chest, which was splattered with baby vomit at the neckline of his favourite Led Zeppelin t-shirt. The burping towel on his shoulder remained immaculately clean. It appeared Mary was perfecting the art of projectile vomiting. Impressive, for a baby.

"It went down my freakin' shirt!" Dean hissed, grimacing at the feel of warm baby puke sliding down the skin of his chest.

John chuckled.

"Be thankful she's not a boy," he said with a laugh. "I couldn't count the number of times you peed on me after I took your diaper off to change you when you were a baby. It was like you were waiting for your little pecker to be free so you could douse me."

Dean's face hardened, his jaw hanging slightly open dumbly.

"You ever use the words 'little pecker' in reference to me and the family jewels again, and I swear we're gonna have problems, old man."

John's whole chest rumbled with the laugh that broke free from his belly, shaking his frame and causing his cheeks to dimple deeply. He shook his head and sighed contentedly. They were slipping into a routine and it was starting to feel almost... nice. Which was probably a bad sign.

Mary had officially been a Winchester for two weeks, and after a rocky start, they'd finally managed to get her feeding worked out. Goats' milk settled best in her stomach, though the doctor assured them they'd be able to switch her back to formula in a couple of months. Her digestive tract still needed to develop more, and once it had she would hopefully be able to sleep more soundly through the night. John prayed the doctors were right, because the goats' milk was expensive and neither he nor Dean had slept more than two hours combined in the past two weeks.

Like her Daddy, Mary liked movement. She could sleep if someone was carrying her, rocking her, moving or jiggling her. Of course, this meant that whoever was acting as her personal gyration machine wasn't getting any sleep whatsoever. And John thought it was only right that that someone was Dean. After all, Dean was the one who'd gotten himself into this mess with his overactive libido. Besides, John had already paid his dues back in the 80s. He hadn't signed on to be a Dad to a newborn again now that he was approaching 50.

But just because Dean was the one on baby duty didn't mean John was free to wink off to the land of Nod. _Oh no_. Because Dean doesn't do quiet. When Dean was up with Mary, he was talking to her or singing to her – and not any kind of lullaby that any normal parent would sing. Mary Winchester got the greatest hits of Guns 'n Roses, Metallica, Led Zeppelin, and the entire catalogue of Dean's favourite classic rock songs. When he got really bored he'd pull out the most obscure 80s songs he could think of, trying to remember the lyrics and singing them to his daughter as though she were actually paying attention to his accuracy. John could swear he heard Dean singing "Easy Lover" two nights ago.

"You ready for grub, kiddo?" John asked. It was just past 7:00 and they'd lost track of time again: John with his research and Dean with the care and feeding of the infant who pretty much took up all of his time.

"Starved!" was Dean's reply. He set Mary down in her car seat (the single most important baby item in the Winchesters' arsenal) so that he could tear his sodden shirt off.

"Guh!" Dean exclaimed, grabbing a wet face cloth and pawing at his chest with a grimace. "I think the smell of baby puke has permanently settled into my skin."

John didn't have the heart to tell Dean that it was true. The kid reeked of baby, the scent of powder, baby shampoo, and that sweetness of skin that is unique only to babies, had settled into Dean's pores and taken up residence there. The thought made John cringe a little, because any woman with a ticking biological clock would positively salivate at the smell of him.

"I'll go get us a table," John called on his way out the door.

The diner was just across the street from the latest dive motel they'd crashed at, so John knew there was no point in waiting for Dean. He was hungry now and he wanted to expedite the food ordering process. Plus, he needed just a few minutes to himself.

He was itching for a hunt. These past two weeks had been nice, and certainly necessary, but with each passing day John found himself growing more restless. The hunt for Mary's killer only grew colder, and the endless legions of evil weren't going to hunt themselves. It'd been nice to have some downtime with his boy, to be there for him as he learned to adjust to having an infant dependent on him for everything, but it was time to get back to business. John needed a hunt.

When he made his way to the entrance of the diner, it was to find that the joint was relatively quiet. The supper crowd had mostly dwindled out, leaving only a few tables of early-evening diners to fill up the space. A pretty waitress with long, golden brown ringlets took John's order for a coffee with an open smile and soft sashaying hips.

John smirked when he noticed his son standing at the doorway, having just arrived, watching the waitress's swaying back end as she sauntered over to the counter to pour John's coffee. Mary's car seat was held tightly in one hand, the other carefully peeling off the slightly oversized leather jacket.

"Hey," Dean called as he made his way to the table to join his father. With cat-like grace he reached over the booth and placed Mary, carrier and all, on the table at the back, next to the window. Then he hung up the jacket on a nearby hook and slid in the booth across from John.

"They got meatloaf," John said as he returned his gaze to the menu. "Comes with potatoes and coleslaw."

"I think I need something greasier," Dean said thoughtfully, his bottom lip jutting out as he lowered his gaze to his own menu. "Mmmm... bacon cheeseburger sounds nice."

"You keep eating like that you're gonna get fat," John warned. He'd never really worried about Dean's weight before because their lives had always been so physically demanding. But with the baby here and Dean temporarily benched until they could work out some kind of babysitting arrangement, weight gain could become a serious issue.

But Dean wasn't paying attention, or else was deliberately ignoring his father's warning. It was one of the only ways he ever defied his dad: ignoring him or pretending not to hear him when he didn't agree, or when he wanted to rebel in some way. Where Sam would fly off at the mouth, puffing his chest like a rooster ready to wake the dead with its morning call, Dean's way of 'arguing' with John was to grow silent, to tune him out, or to pretend he hadn't heard him. Sometimes John found himself wishing the kid would just flare up and fight back, argue with him – just once – so he'd know Dean's training hadn't left him as some kind of Pavlovian dog with no free will to speak his mind.

But he didn't want it to happen today, and he certainly didn't want it to happen right now.

"Are you listening to me, Dean?" John demanded.

Dean made a non-committal 'mm-hmm' sound but never once took his eyes off the menu.

"I'm sayin' maybe you should lay off the cheeseburgers."

Then Dean did look up.

"Is that an order?" he asked, an unreadable expression on his face. God he looked tired.

John coughed uncomfortably. Had he meant it as an order? He supposed he had, but it would seem awfully ridiculous to be ordering his grown, fully adult son to not eat a damned cheeseburger. Maybe that's why Dean was looking suddenly amused, the right corner of his mouth quirking ever so slightly into a grin.

"More like a fatherly suggestion," John put in delicately. "Dean, if you're gonna keep up with your heart-attack-in-the-making food regime, you're gonna have to step up with your training, get back in a routine of getting regular exercise."

Dean took a large, loud gulp from the glass of water at his place setting and set it down with a satisfied 'ahhhh' before replying with gusto.

"You're absolutely right," he said. "And I know just where to start."

And the lady killer smile was back in full force, his head turning slightly to the left to acknowledge the pretty waitress, who'd just returned with her notepad and who was eying Dean like he was a fresh slab of meat.

"Why hello there, sweetheart," Dean drawled. "Can I start with a coffee, black?"

The poor girl was so mesmerized by his megawatt smile that she stood temporarily transfixed, her lips slightly parted.

"Gotta keep the energy up and all," he continued, though he'd turned to brush a finger against Mary's chubby cheek. "Babies and sleep don't exactly go together."

John had to stifle the snort of laughter as he watched the waitress suck in her bottom lip and bite down on it. Suggestively.

"You're on your own then?" she asked, almost breathless, pointing her pencil at Mary and melting at the sight of the sleeping infant on the table.

"Just me and my Dad," Dean said wistfully, sighing for emphasis. John kicked him in the shin under the table, but Dean barely flinched.

"That must be rough," the waitress replied, the eraser end of the pencil in her mouth now as she rolled it around between her lips.

"To be honest, I'm still adapting," Dean said.

John had had enough.

"Coffee?" John barked, and the waitress actually jumped as if she'd been jolted with electricity. "And then, if you don't mind, I'd like to place my order."

John watched as the woman blushed red from her ears probably down to her toes.

"Right... uh... sorry," she stammered.

"Don't worry about it... uh...?" Dean fished for a name.

"Sheila."

"Don't worry about it, Sheila. He just gets cranky if he doesn't get his three square."

John kicked his son in the shin again.

"What the hell was that for?" Dean hissed once Sheila had departed for the coffee pot.

"Knock it off with the flirting, kid," John replied. "It so ain't gonna happen."

"What are you talking about?" Dean scoffed. "This one is so in the freakin' bag, man."

They halted the conversation abruptly when Sheila returned.

"So what can I get you?" she asked.

"I'll have the mealoaf special," John said tiredly. He watched as she scribbled the order onto the notepad.

"And for you... uh...?"

"Dean," the kid said, a slow grin spreading across his face. He moved in for the kill, looking up at her from beneath his heavy lashes, lifting the lids so slowly John could swear he heard the girl hold her breath. "And I'm gonna go with the Bacon Cheeseburger Platter, please. And can I get the bacon extra crispy?"

"Sure." And the poor girl was actually breathless.

"Not the kind of exercise I had in mind Dean," John intoned when Sheila disappeared behind the door to the kitchen.

Dean shrugged and grinned that shit-eating grin again.

"Hey, whatever works, man."

"Well you're not workin' this one, I can promise you that." No way. John wasn't having it. Period.

"Why not?"

"Because for starters, I'm not staying home with Mary while you go Tom-cattin' around," John hissed. "And second, this kind of behaviour is what got you into this mess in the first place." And he pointed at the sleeping baby to prove his point. "And most importantly, because I said so!"

That worked in wiping the smile off of his face.

"You can't be serious?"

John's expression darkened and he leaned across the table to give his kid the evil eye.

"Do I look like I'm fucking joking?"

Dean huffed and slammed his shoulders back against the booth, pouting petulantly.

"Are you sulking?" John asked. And if there was one thing he'd learned as a parent, it was that the first thing your kid did when you asked if they were sulking was begin to sulk. He'd used that one more times than he could count to provoke a fight with Sam when he felt the kid was getting too big for his britches.

"No," Dean muttered, very obviously sulking now. And John felt the tiniest bit satisfied because he'd been made to endure the flirting when he was in no mood for it.

"No _what_?"

"No _sir_," Dean amended.

"Good," John said as he leaned back against the padded booth wall and visibly relaxed. "So I say first thing in the morning, we set you up on a good three-mile run. Get you back into a routine of training."

Dean shrugged.

"Whatever," he said, all the wind gone from his sails. "Long as you don't mind lookin' after Mary while I'm gone."

But John was shaking his head.

"No can do, kiddo." The more he pushed, the more satisfied he felt. It was sick and all kinds of mean, but John Winchester didn't want Dean feeling like he'd somehow gotten away with this most major of all major screw-ups. He wanted the kid to feel his father's displeasure, to know that his old man wasn't going to make it easy on him. Plus there was the fact that the baby _was_ Dean's responsibility. He had to learn how to adapt to having a child, had to learn how to adapt his routine to include Mary in it. He couldn't rely on his Dad to take care of this for him. It'd make him grow complacent, and John wanted Dean sharp, both as a hunter and as a parent. It was a tough lesson to learn, but one that the eldest Winchester intended to sink in.

"What?" Dean asked sharply. "Why? Where will you be?"

"Sleeping."

The young father folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes.

"So how exactly am I supposed to do a three-mile run with a freakin' infant in my arms?"

"I don't like your tone," John warned.

The kid's eyes widened in shocked disbelief, then narrowed again. He opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again, opened it, then closed it with a heavy sigh. Then he promptly deflated with obvious exhaustion. Dean had never had the energy to fight with his father like Sam had.

"Seriously Dad, cut me a break," he pleaded. "How'm I s'posed to do the run with Mary? You obviously have some idea."

And he did, of course. Which was why he had to fight to keep the smirk from his face.

"It's simple Dean. How do most parents go for a walk or a run when they've got a baby?"

Dean's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the question evident on his face.

"They don't?" he suggested, completely lost. Then his eyes widened and his brows rose into his hairline, only to fall as his entire face fell with blank incredulity.

"You've got to be kidding me," he nearly growled. "A freakin' stroller?"

John nodded.

"Okay, so I get that you're still pissed at me, Dad. I get it. I deserve it. But you can't keep punishin' me forever."

"Sure I can," John replied, grinning now.

"Daaad," Dean whined.

"And this isn't punishment, Dean. This is sink or swim. I'm sorry, but you're a parent now. You've got to adapt or learn to get on without your early-morning three-mile runs."

"You're enjoying this way too much," the kid accused.

John's grin widened.

"Gotta get my kicks somewhere," he admitted.

"Try getting laid," Dean countered.

"Dean!" It was a warning, in his best Sgt. Winchester deep voice.

"Fine!"

John let out a satisfied chuckle when Sheila emerged from the kitchen and laid his meatloaf special on the table before him. He breathed in deep, savouring the aroma of spiced meat and buttered potatoes.

"Look great, thanks!" he said with a wide grin, beaming up at the flustered and confused young waitress. It was obvious she'd taken in the reversed attitudes of the father-son duo: John now grinning like the cat that ate the canary and Dean looking sullen and grumpy.

"And here's your Bacon Cheeseburger Platter," she said to Dean, setting the plate before him with care. "If there's anything else I can get you...?" And it was no secret that there was an invitation there.

Dean sighed heavily and forced a weak smile as he looked up at the pretty waitress who he most definitely would not be having sex with.

"Nah, thanks," he said, defeated. "I'm good."

888

So it turned out the stroller that Ellie had bought was some kind of 'travel system' turbo sports stroller, complete with a hand-break, shocks to prevent bouncing or jostling, and a single swivel wheel in the front that could be locked into position. It was designed for parents who wanted to jog or run with their infants. And best of all, the car seat carrier clipped onto a bar above the stroller seat. Dean was seriously in love with that damned car seat.

Regardless of how cool it was, though, the very idea of going anywhere in public with a stroller was nothing short of mortifying for the young hunter-turned-father. It screamed, _'Look at me! I'm Mr. Mom! This baby's got my balls in a vise!'_ And it was bad enough that his Dad was going all puritanical-drill-sergeant on his ass: it was starting to look like he'd never have sex again.

The stroller symbolized all of this. _I've just been neutered_, Dean thought. And now he was up at the crack of dawn, with a sports stroller going on a three-mile run like some kind of yuppie She-Dad on parental leave. He'd sooner have a marsupial pouch that he could tuck Mary away in than use the damned stroller. Somehow carrying the child within his skin like a kangaroo was less emasculating than the stroller-jogging. In fact, if he weren't such a manly man, he thought he might stomp his feet and cry with girlish petulance. Because really? This sucked out loud.

"All right then," he said in the early morning light. "Time for the execution march..."

Mary was awake and grinning, her gums bubbling with spit as she clucked her tongue happily. And with the get-up of the stroller, she was facing her daddy and could see him as he struggled to begin the jog/run with some semblance of his manly dignity intact.

"This is all your fault you know," he warned her as he did a few stretches on the sidewalk. "You're supposed to be layin' on the charm so Grandpa falls in love with you and can't be parted from you. You mean to tell me that your Winchester charm is somehow defective? I mean you're _my_ daughter, for Christ's sake!"

She squiggled her legs in the air at the sound of his voice, knocking one of her tiny booties off, sock and all, so that her little pink foot was exposed to the early morning chill. Dean slid the sock back onto her foot, still amazed at how tiny and perfect her toes were.

"You all right there, Mare?" he asked her.

Her big round blue eyes twinkled at him, her grin deepening as she gazed up at him with such complete and utter trust. Dean couldn't get over how soft she was, or how good she smelled when she wasn't dirty (though he'd never admit that, because guys were supposed to be immune to baby smell). And when she wasn't screaming her head off through the night, she seemed like a pretty happy baby.

He also wouldn't ever admit that he loved bathing her. There was something so intimate and pure about giving a baby a bath, maybe because it required such gentleness and care and attention, or maybe because Mary positively shivered with pleasure at the feeling of the lukewarm water and baby bubbles sliding in soft rivulets over her brand new and sensitive flesh. Everything about bath time was soft: the little terrycloth bath frame Mary rested on, the extra mild baby soap, Mary's skin... Dean loved the feeling of her in his arms once he'd wrapped her up in that little, soft, pink towel, the water soaking through it and her skin smelling like clean baby and soap. And she would rest her tiny head on his shoulder and gurgle happily, drooling on him and kicking her legs with joy.

"Ah, who am I kidding?" Dean said with a sigh. "Your Winchester charm's workin' just fine. We just need to work on warming the old Grinch's heart, right?"

It took a while to get used to maneuvering the high-tech stroller, but once he got the hang of it things went pretty smoothly. Dean found he could actually keep a pretty fast pace, though not properly running at the speed he'd normally keep. Still, it was a work-out, and the stroller itself acted as a prop for him, requiring the use of different muscles, especially when he went uphill. At the end of two and a half-hours, Dean had worked up a sweat and an appetite, and little Mary had begun screeching for immediate physical attention.

"You hungry baby?" he asked, pulling to a stop and lifting the squalling infant into his arms. He'd given her a quick feed earlier but suspected she might be hungry again. The smell that met him she he'd rested her against his chest, however, told him that hunger wasn't the problem.

"Diaper change time, huh?" They weren't anywhere near the motel yet and Dean wasn't sure what he should do. He'd never had to change her in public before, having spent most of his time in the motel room with her. He had the supplies tucked away in the handy little basket under the stroller, but didn't actually have anywhere to change her.

He chewed his lip in thought. There had to be somewhere inside to change a baby. Otherwise where did moms change their babies? It wasn't like they were stopping on the street, hauling out blankets and doing diaper changes on the sidewalk. And they weren't doing it in the park either. The Men's room in any public restaurant or shopping outlet or coffee shop even wouldn't have enough counter space to change a baby.

"Crap!"

Deciding to try his luck, he jogged over to the Wal-Mart across the street, thinking they might have one of those baby change-table room thingies. He'd seen signs for them before – had even banged a hot teller in one on her lunch break once. Maybe they'd have one at this Wal-Mart.

The place was crowded, which was kind of scary, considering it was barely 9 o'clock in the morning. But it was a Saturday, and apparently on the weekends the early bird gets the Wal-Mart worm. Dean squeezed his way past the line-up at the Customer Service desk, using the now empty stroller as a battering ram to shove people out of the way as he angled it one-handed through the crowd, Mary tucked against his chest and wailing her displeasure with wild abandon.

"Excuse me?" Dean asked, allowing himself to look desperate and frazzled for the benefit of the seriously pissed off people he'd butted in front of. "Quick question: you got anywhere I can change her?"

The young teen behind the counter paled and looked at his co-worker, a middle-aged woman with thick dark glasses and orange-red hair that was frazzled and gray at the roots, with a look of discomfort.

"Um... we don't really... exchange....?"

"What?" Dean couldn't have heard the kid right.

"Oh for goodness sakes, Ryan, he said change her – not _exchange_ her!" the woman snarked, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly.

"Well that's good because I'm pretty sure the store warranty on this one's expired anyway," Dean said dryly. "I'd have to take her back to the manufacturer."

The woman chuckled and slapped a plastic 'Closed' sign in front of her till.

"Come with me," she said as she shuffled her way out from behind the counter. "It's part of the Ladies' room so I'll just accompany you so no one gets upset."

"Thanks," Dean breathed in relief. The murderous looks he was getting from the disgruntled customers in the line-up at having one of the two open tills suddenly closed almost brought a smile to his face.

"Right this way," the woman said, weaving through the crowd on surprisingly nimble feet until they finally reached the hallway that led to the washrooms.

The baby changing table was definitely part of the women's bathroom, though it was separate, its own little nook off to the side. The Customer Service woman, whose name Dean had since learned was Lorraine, eased the table down from its hide-way spot in the wall with the flick of a latch and then stood guard near the entrance so that no unsuspecting women wandered in to see a young man in the Ladies' room.

"So where's the little girl's Mama?" Lorraine asked conversationally, though her eyes were trained on Mary with that naturally feminine adoration that most women seemed to don when they were in the presence of newborn babies.

"Dead." There wasn't any point in sugarcoating it, and Dean tended to go with blunt whenever he could help it.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's not so bad for me," Dean admitted, laying a blanket out over the cold plastic surface of the table. "We weren't really close or anything. But I s'pose it'll be hard for Mary when she grows up, having no mom, you know?"

"Yes, growing up without a mother is always tough on a child," Lorraine agreed somberly.

And wow, how had the conversation suddenly become so personal? Dean wasn't one to talk about his feelings, or his private life, or anything that remotely delved into the arena of personal, let alone with a complete stranger. And thinking about Mary growing up without a mom brought back way too many painful memories of ghosted kisses in his dreams and longed-for hugs that would never come again and crying silently for his mama while Sammy slept blissfully not two inches from his face in a tiny crib. And that was it, wasn't it? Mary was going to grow up not knowing her mother, having no memory of her, just like Sam. Every time that realization came to him it made him question his decision to keep her, because at least with the Andersons Mary would have always known a mother and a father. She'd never have lived with that big gaping hole where a parent should be. Maybe Dean had deprived his daughter of something fundamentally important to her development.

Dean cleared his throat and went to work stripping the baby of her booties and socks and yellow sleeper. It was easier to focus on the task, push away those painful thoughts and gut-churning doubts. Dirty diapers worked wonders in distracting him from the million-and-one what-ifs that ran through his head every day.

"Holy freakin' God!" Dean gasped, trying not to gag. He'd never expected changing diapers to be pleasant or appealing in any way, but sometimes the colours and textures that greeted him inside his daughter's dirty diapers defied logic and physics.

"It's green," he moaned, then gagged. "And orange."

"A bit early to be celebrating Halloween," Lorraine said with a bemused smile on her face. "You need any help over there?"

Dean flared his nostrils and took several deep, steadying breaths. Once he felt he'd gotten his gag reflex reasonably under control, he set back to work.

"I'm good," he said, though he had to swallow thickly to prompt himself into action. "Just needed a sec."

It took a few minutes of careful maneuvering and then scrupulous wiping with several baby wipes, but the end result was a freshly clean diaper on a smiling and contented baby. Mary kicked her chubby little legs happily and gurgled at her daddy as if to say, 'See? I knew you'd make it better.' And Dean couldn't help but smile because it was all he wanted, to be able to always make it better for her.

"That little girl sure loves her daddy," Lorraine said, her eyes dewy at the sight of the young father with his baby girl.

"Yeah?"

She nodded.

"Way she looks at you – I bet she has you wrapped around her little finger."

Dean sighed, then smiled a tight-lipped smile with only the right side of his mouth.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I'm so screwed when she starts talking."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Notes:**

This one's a wee bit shorter, but I thought we needed some more Sam before we get to the lengthy past bits. There'll be significant portions of Baby!Mary to come soon.

Oh yes -- it also always goes without saying that I do not own any of the characters of Supernatural. Which is why I'm never laughing on my way to the bank. EVER.

I always forget the disclaimer because it seems kind of grossly obvious. But am tossing it in now for good measure.

* * *

_October 31, 2005_

Sam was suddenly very glad he didn't have any kids.

The meal had gone off relatively well, and it had been so nice to see Dean interacting with his daughter that Sam had admittedly gotten a little caught up in the moment. All thoughts of their missing father and Dean's request that he help him find him had sort of fallen by the wayside, but with the meal done Dean had wasted no time in getting back to the matter at hand. It was decided, then, that they would head out in the morning and would take a few days to see if they could track down the elusive John Winchester. That still left Sam with almost a full week before his interview, but he made it clear to Dean that he had to be back by the weekend at the very latest. The interview was on Monday.

"No problem," Dean had promised.

And then the jerk had gone ahead and shamelessly commandeered Jessica's time in volunteering her to babysit Mary here at the apartment while the boys hit the road.

"Who knows?" he'd cajoled. "She could be your niece some day, if Sammy plays his cards right. It'll be good for you to spend some quality time with the little munchkin."

Though she loved kids, and certainly had a soft spot for Mary, Jess had not been happy about being roped into looking after Sam's niece. Not that she would have said no. But it was being put on the spot, and Dean just assuming that her time was now at his disposal, that rubbed her the wrong way. Sam could see that dangerous glint in her eye that said she was itching to tell him off.

And now that it was nearing nighttime and Mary's time for bed had long since passed, Sam could see that Jess was especially regretting and resenting that she'd be saddled with the toddler for the better part of a week. Because Mary was throwing a tantrum.

"Nahhhhhhhhh!" she screamed, kicking out her legs and flailing her arms as a steady stream of tears tracked down her red cheeks.

It had been a veritable Battle Royale to get the kid into her pajamas, an even bigger task to brush her teeth, and now that it was time to settle her into the bed in the spare room, she was positively adamant that she would _not_ be going to bed.

"You want a nightlight?" Dean asked over the screaming, trying to look like he wasn't perturbed or moved at all by the shrillness of her voice or the steady flow of her tears.

"No! NO!" the toddler whined in her tiny, loud voice. "I'na tired, Daddy!"

"Sure you're not," Dean muttered, yanking the covers over her still kicking legs.

"Noooooo!" she screeched, kicking the blankets off and then adding another kick against the back of her daddy's hand for good measure.

"Mary, I'm gonna count to three," Dean warned. The child's eyes widened and a fresh wave of tears sprinkled her cheeks, her lip quivering with utter despair.

"Daddy!" she bawled, pawing at him with chubby fingers in an attempt to draw him into a hug.

"Bed." Dean said sternly. "Now."

Mary set loose with a fresh string of wailing, her little mouth drawn down into the most pathetic grimace of bawling agony any two year-old had ever managed, and in a mad fit of temper she swatted petulantly at Dean's retreating hands as he made to stand up and leave her alone.

Sam thought maybe his eardrums would burst when Mary squealed out a plaintive "Daddeeeeeee!" that most likely broke the sound barrier.

Dean turned his back on the screaming child and made his way to the door, not bothering to glance back before he pulled the door mostly to and flicked off the light. Once he'd made it to the hallway where Sam and Jess were waiting and nursing their bleeding ears, Dean slumped against the wall and heaved an aggrieved sigh.

"She'll settle down in a few minutes," he whispered tiredly, sounding exhausted.

Sam exchanged a significant glance with Jess, one Dean didn't see because he'd tucked his head to his chest and seemed to be breathing deeply, as if forcing away a panic attack. But then he raised his head and forced a grin, the moment of weakness past and buried.

"This normal for her?" Sam asked hesitantly, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity. "Because she was throwing a tantrum earlier today in the coffee shop too..."

Dean's smile vanished and his eyes hardened.

"You judgin' my kid, Sammy?" His voice was testy.

"I'm just saying," Sam replied. "I can't imagine Dad letting that kind of behaviour fly."

"Yeah, well Dad's not here!" Dean snapped. "She's a good kid, Sam." And then he sighed heavily and softened his tone. "She's a good kid. She's just tired. She's spent the better part of the last two days sittin' in a car. She's tired, she's cranky, and she's in a new place in a strange bed. And let's not forget, she's only two, man."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said. And he really meant it. He hadn't really thought about how hard it would be for a toddler to sit through the days' long drive to California, with very little to occupy her time or interest her.

"And I suppose being in a room by herself is kind of new to her too, huh?"

Dean nodded.

"Sometimes we rent small apartments – or at least we did when she was a baby and we had to warm bottles and milk and stuff. But mostly we just do motels, right? And she just sleeps in with me so we don't have to pay for an extra bed. Sometimes we'll get a rollaway cot, but even then she's still in the room with us when it's time for bed."

"So this is all probably a bit overwhelming for her," Jess put in. "Are you sure it's a good idea to leave her here with me?"

"She'll be fine," Dean assured them. "We'll stick around tomorrow morning and maybe leave after lunch. Give her some time to interact with Jess while I'm around. But she's really good with strangers. It's mostly just me she pulls her bullshit with."

They could still hear the wailing of the desperate little child as she cried in the darkness of the spare bedroom. Dean forced himself away from the wall and headed down the hallway to the living room, Sam and Jess following closely behind him.

"You got any beer?"

Sam huffed a laugh.

"Yeah, got some in the fridge."

Without missing a beat, Dean quickly slinked into the kitchen, retrieved three beers, and was back in the living room in a matter of seconds. He handed a beer to his brother and the leggy blonde and then eased himself onto the sofa with a heaved sigh. He looked bone tired as he twisted off the cap and took a long pull from the bottle.

"So Sammy," Dean said. "Tell me about Stanford. What's been goin' on with you, anyway?"

Sam gave his brother a wry look, smirking.

"Ah, you know me," Sam said. "Just trying to make a life for myself here." He grinned at the beautiful woman at his side and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I think I've done pretty well, all things considered."

Dean tipped his beer in their direction in acknowledgement.

"I'd say you have, little brother. I heard your friends talking about your LSAT score. So you're gonna be some hot shot lawyer, huh?"

Sam's eyes narrowed.

"It's been my dream for a long time, Dean."

Dean nodded and snorted a laugh.

"Man, when you were little, you used to love to argue. Still do, I suppose... But I remember thinkin' you could argue black was white and people would believe you. Everyone who ever met you said you'd make one heck of a lawyer."

"I remember," Sam admitted, grinning wistfully. "I seem to recall Bobby throwing that one out whenever he wanted to insult me."

The brothers shared a laugh and then the room fell into awkward silence, the only sound anyone could hear being the now quiet muffled whining of a toddler tiring herself out down the hall.

"So Jessica..." Dean sat up a little straighter in an attempt to ward off sleep. "What do you do?"

"I'm a psych major," she said proudly. "I'm hoping to get accepted to the Masters program here at Stanford for next fall."

"The Department Head said your chances were good," Sam said warmly. "Your GPA's pretty impressive, and you know you'll get glowing references from your profs."

"I hope so," Jess admitted timidly. Dean almost found it strange seeing timidity on a girl who seemed so confident in herself. He hadn't known Jess very long and already he could tell that she was a girl who knew what she wanted and went after it. He also had no doubt that she encouraged the same attitude and behaviour in Sam as well. She was definitely good for him.

"Well just look at you two," Dean said fondly, his grin wide and genuine. "Your kids don't stand a chance man – getting the geek gene from both sides."

It was Dean's way of letting Sam know that he'd officially given his stamp of approval on the Jess front, and Sam would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't relieved. He laughed what felt like the first genuine laugh all day since first seeing his brother in the line-up at that coffee shop, Jess laughing right along with him.

"I guess that means Mary's destined to be a slut then," Sam joked, and he knew it was so the wrong thing to say the moment the words had left his lips. He wasn't sure if it was the beer or the stress overload or just the general awkwardness of the day, but apparently Sam's brain had melted and dribbled outside his ear at some point during dinner.

"God... Dean... I'm sorry –"

"Forget it, Sammy," Dean said, setting his beer on the table and getting up to leave. His voice sounded so tired, and Sam wanted to kick himself for having been stupid enough to just blurt out the first dumb thing that came to his mind.

"No really, I didn't mean –"

"I think I'm gonna hit the sack," Dean said, stretching as he stood and yawning dramatically for added emphasis. "It's been a long couple of days."

"Dean..."

"See you in the morning." Already they were looking at Dean's retreating back. "Night, Jess."

They watched in mute chagrin as Dean shuffled tiredly down the hall and eased his way into the spare room, closing the door quietly behind him. As soon as the coast was clear Jess gave Sam a hard swat on the arm.

"You are such an ass," she growled quietly.

And Sam hung his head in shame, because he really, really was.

888

It was awfully quiet, and still kinda dark, and warm and fuzzy and confusing and Mary was scared and wet. She pouted her lips and felt tears forming in her eyes, preparing herself to cry for her daddy when she felt a warm arm wrap around her shoulder and then everything was okay. She blinked up with sleepy eyes and saw her daddy's big muscly chest and not much else. He was probably the biggest daddy ever, though not as big as Gumpy. And not as big as Uncle Sammy, who was a giant, and she wasn't sure he was a daddy, either. She hadn't seen his little girl or little boy yet if he was, and there were no toys and the pretty lady with the yellow hair didn't have a baby with her or anything.

Mary shrugged free of her father's grip and crawled onto her knees so she could see her daddy's face. He was a handsome daddy – all his pretty lady friends said so, just like they said she was a pretty little girl. She liked Daddy's friends, especially when they bought her candy and made Daddy smile big. And when Daddy smiled big at the pretty ladies Gumpy would kick Daddy under the table and they would growl-talk like dogs and Mary would laugh and laugh. They were funny when they pretended to be dogs.

Right now Mary wished her daddy was awake because she was wet and it was starting to itch, and she wasn't sleepy anymore at all, not one bit, and she didn't want to lie in this strange bed anymore with nothing to do but stare at her daddy. Nossir, she didn't. But she really didn't want to leave the room on her own, because she was confused about where she was, and though she couldn't remember what motel they were staying in, she remembered that Gumpy wasn't here to greet her if she ventured out without Daddy. And what if big giant Uncle Sam was waiting out there to gobble her up or steal her Dora blanket?

Deciding that the Yellow Lady probably wanted Uncle Sam to steal her Dora blanket, Mary was suddenly desperate to wake her daddy up. She was starting to get scared and he always knew how to make her not scared anymore. With delicate care she reached out with pudgy digits and clamped her thumb and index finger onto his nostrils, pinching them closed. Daddy tried to take one of his sleepy deep breaths and snorted, coughing and whipping his head away with a snort before smacking his lips and sighing back to sleep.

"Daddy," Mary whined, wanting him to _wake up right now_. But Daddy did that lazy smile and breathed deeper and did not wake up at all.

"Daddy," she tried again, louder this time.

Daddy's mouth was open a little bit and Mary wished she had some candy to shove in there because that would wake him up real good. No one could resist candy, not even Daddy. Except maybe Gumpy. But Mary didn't have any candy, and so she settled for poking her daddy hard in the eye.

"Gah!" he grumbled, snorting and sighing and rolling to his side, away from Mary.

"Dad-deee!" she whined louder, draping her body across his shoulder so she could see his face again, leaving her bum in the air and her head hanging low, almost banging into Daddy's chin.

"I'wan bweffass," she pressed, poking at his eye repeatedly and giggling when he twitched his cheeks and groaned, pawing her hand away like a big lazy bones.

"I'wan bweffass!" she repeated, louder and louder, chanting it in that way that always got his attention and made him count to three.

"Mare," he finally said in his morning voice that was growly and rough like Gumpy's. "Why are you pokin' me?"

Mary grinned big and poked at her sleepyhead Daddy's eye one more time for good measure.

"Dettup, Daddy!"

Mary giggled again when Daddy peeled his eyes open real slow and squinted at her face, which was almost nose-to-nose with his. And then she squealed when he did that fast-fast-fast thing where he nabbed her like the Cookie Monster and kissed her on the cheek and then pulled her over his shoulder and tucked her up against his chest.

"Are you wet?" he croaked onto the top of her head.

Mary nodded.

"Okay," he said and then sighed loudly. He ran a big hand over his eyes and rubbed them – probably because he was still sleepy – and then he yawned real big and stretched. "Okay. I'm up." And then he sat up and felt the back of his t-shirt and frowned. "And I'm wet."

Mary hopped off the bed and danced from foot to foot, so happy now that Daddy was up. She really needed to go check on her Dora blanket and make sure it hadn't been stolen. Plus, she really wanted a clean diaper.

"How 'bout we have a bath this mornin', huh?"

She did not like the sound of that, so she shook her head back and forth real fast.

"No," she pouted.

"You're wet'n stinky," Daddy said. "Nothin' for it, kiddo."

"No."

Daddy frowned at her.

"Not up for discussion, Mary. It'll just be a quick one – just so we can get you cleaned up."

"No."

Then Daddy sighed again.

"You're not doing that 'no' thing again, are you? 'Cos I thought we've been over this and decided it was annoying and in no way befitting a Winchester."

"No."

"That's it!" And Daddy was on his feet now. "Your ass is wet and soapy, kid. On the count of three... One... two..."

"Waaaaaaaaah!" Mary squealed, running for the door with one tiny hand extended toward the knob. But Daddy was too fast and too strong and she was giggling and squealing when he swooped her up with a growl and carried her out the door and down the hall.

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Jess was giggling, though her face was still buried in the pillow. Sam rolled onto his front and buried his face in her neck, savouring the scent of her hair and her skin and wishing to God he could fall back asleep because the bed was so warm and their bodies fit together so perfectly that it would feel criminal to get out of bed just now. That and he was afraid to face his brother after their awkward parting the night before.

"Isn't she the cutest thing you've ever seen?" Jess's voice came muffled through the pillows. She turned her head and grinned, her blue eyes sparkling.

They could hear Mary's squeals and giggles coming from the bathroom as Dean used a very _not_-morning-voice pirate accent, throwing in as many 'Aaaaargh, me hearties!' to the conversation as he dared.

"Ye swarthy scab! Ye filthy brigand!" Dean bellowed. "I'll be scrubbin' yer ass clean as a whistle, or ye'll be feastin' on me hook!"

Sam grinned until his cheeks throbbed as Mary released a squealed peal of laughter and then replied something in her toddler broken English that Sam was sure only Dean could understand.

"There be no use pleadin', Lass!" Dean growled, and Sam was sure that if he could see his brother, he'd find him with his face all contorted like Pop-Eye. "Ye'll be scrubbed clean, or me name ain't Mean Dean Winchester! Aaaargh!"

"I'na Lass, Daddy!" the little girl's voice giggled. "I Mawee."

Sam's thoughts wandered at the playful banter of father and child down the hall, thinking how great it would be to have kids of his own some day (his reservations from last night completely forgotten now). These were thoughts he'd had before, on days when he'd been brave enough to go into the jewelry store to look at rings for Jess. He'd allowed himself to picture their lives together, and had conjured up images just like the ones he was listening to down the hall. Bath time with the kids, the heart-warming sound of laughter ringing through the house that love built. And okay, so it might be cheesy by Winchester standards, but it was all Sam had ever wanted. A real life. He couldn't wait to start a real life with Jess and fill it with little people.

"That'll be us some day," Jess breathed in his ear.

"What, me giving you a bath and talking in a pirate voice?" Sam teased.

Jess gave him a playful cuff in the gut.

"A family," she said.

It almost hurt, feeling so complete with her lying next to him, visions of their future together painting pictures in his mind of the two of them growing old together. All his life he'd never imagined that it could be so good. Years of being isolated and alone and afraid, never being able to form attachments because they were never in one place long enough, never being able to let anyone see the real him because their lives as hunters were nothing but lies... In all that time he'd always dreamed about fitting somewhere, having what other people took for granted every day: friends, family, a home. Now it was all his, staring him in the face in the form of Jessica Moore with her crystal blue eyes and her hair like spun gold.

"What would I do without you?"

She pretended to think about it.

"Crash and burn," she said, grinning and kissing him tenderly on the mouth.

The thought of screaming toddler tantrums and dirty diapers seemed so insignificant, paled in comparison, really, in the face of what they were and what they could do together. The headaches and the heartaches that Dean was facing alone would be so much smaller for him and Jess because they'd have each other to fall back on. It made Sam feel bad for his brother.

"He seems to be doing pretty well with the whole single father thing," Jess said, voicing his thoughts aloud.

Sam huffed a laugh.

"I can't imagine how he does it," he admitted. "The guy's got the patience of a badger and the maturity of an eight year-old. And the attention span of a newt. Not to mention, he spends practically every waking moment with Dad. Take all of Dean's shortcomings, except for the sex addict stuff, and multiply them by ten – that's our Dad. The very idea of John Winchester interacting with a two year-old is enough to freeze the blood in my veins."

"Aren't you being a tad dramatic?" Jess queried playfully. "He can't be that bad."

"You haven't met my Dad."

"But I will some day, right?" Jess asked hopefully. "I mean... You guys can't stay mad at each other forever."

"Can we not talk about this?" It felt like the temperature in the room had dropped several degrees.

"Sure babe," Jess said, always ready with whatever he needed.

"I should get up. Make sure Dean and Mary get some breakfast. Pack up for our trip." Sam didn't bother waiting for her reply before easing himself out of bed on swift feet and slipping out the door. He didn't want to see the look on her face, knowing she must be pitying him for whatever secrets from his past haunted him.

Talking about Dad was too much. Hell, thinking about Dad was too much. Sam just wanted to get on the road and get this over with so he could get as far away from his past as possible. Dean being here, dragging him along to look for their Dad, reminded him of the freaky dreams he'd been having lately. Dreams of fire and blood and golden hair burning white and red in swirling tendrils of flame and ash.

No, the sooner they got on the road the sooner this would be over and he could get back to the life he'd _chosen_. Though, if he was honest with himself, he didn't think he could easily cut his brother out of his life as he'd done before. He'd already missed so much time with his niece, and the idea of her growing up without him being a part of her life left him feeling hollow and empty inside.

That little girl had toddled her way into his life, all chubby arms and legs and dimpled smile and green eyes and wispy blonde hair, grins and giggles, tears and tantrums and all – and Sam knew he loved her already.

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	7. Chapter 7

October, 2003

Dean was so tired he thought he might actually cry. Driving long distances in the Impala by himself was bad enough – it had been a real adjustment getting used to life on the road without Sam as company after the kid left for Stanford – but it was ten times worse with an infant crying in the backseat and no means of comforting her through the long hours. John had barreled ahead in his truck, leaving Dean with strict instructions that they were to meet in seven hours, no exceptions. That would leave Dean with enough time to make a few quick stops for diaper changes, grab a bite to eat and maybe even take a piss, and feed Mary when she was hungry. It did not allow for time to take naps himself, nor did it give him the luxury of soothing his colicky baby with the usual gyrations that kept her soothed and calm.

The radio made her scream, so that was out. Talking to her or singing to her had little or no effect on her whatsoever, and if anything seemed to make her scream louder, as if to show him how truly selfish he was being enjoying the sound of his own voice when she was clearly in such distress. She was at her most irate with him when her face turned that awful purplish-red colour, where she became nothing but gums and a curled tongue, wailing in abject misery and begging without words for her daddy to just hold her.

If he didn't get out of this car soon he was going to lose his fucking mind.

In the end he decided that John Winchester could go screw himself and pulled over, crawling into the backseat and extracting the squalling mass of baby angst from the safety of her seat to cradle her in his now-trembling arms. He just wanted her to stop. _Please stop crying. Please just stop crying_.

Dad had told him that there would be times when she would just cry inconsolably – that babies sometimes got upset and bawled a blue streak until mom and dad were ready to kill themselves with grief and worry – and Dean had borne witness to a few of those times already. But it didn't mean something was _wrong_.

"Babies cry, Dean," John had said on more than one occasion. "It ain't always a case of 'where there's smoke, there's fire.' If you go rushin' off to the doctor's every time she drives you nuts with cryin', you're gonna have one helluva pampered princess on your hands. Not to mention the motherload of all doctors' bills."

And it sounded like good solid advice. Rationally Dean knew that. But he'd started getting into a rhythm with Mary. There were subtle signs that he was sensitive to with her now, little clues from her cries or the way she squirmed or even the quirk of her mouth that let him know, most of the time, what she wanted – what she needed. It wasn't always foolproof, and knowing what would help her and giving it to her didn't always end her suffering (or his). But it usually at least _helped_. And he was getting better at it. He'd learned when a song would lull her to sleep and when conversation or even just pulling faces would keep her mesmerized.

Now, in the car, with two hours to go before he'd reach Singer's Salvage Yard, nothing he did helped. Mary wasn't hungry. She wasn't dirty. She didn't want songs or faces. Even the steady beat of Dean's heart against her ear as he held her to his chest didn't soothe her much, and that one had been a sure thing when all else failed. No, Mary was seriously distressed and Dean didn't know what to do.

His Dad would tear him a new one if he wimped out and took her to a doctor. It would make him seriously late for their rendez-vous at Bobby's, and John Winchester didn't tolerate tardiness. And Dean knew he'd never hear the end of it if he caved to his fears because it was '_indulging in his own weaknesses_.'

"Well you know what old man?" Dean mumbled to his absent father. "Fuck you."

Dean was the father where Mary was concerned, and though he'd defer to his Dad when it came to the hunt, he'd be damned if he'd let the Drill Sergeant bully him into being negligent with his own kid. He was going to learn from his father's mistakes and vowed not to repeat them.

"Shh-shh, baby," Dean cooed as he placed a tender kiss on his baby girl's hot forehead and eased her back into the secured car seat. "Daddy's gonna get you sorted out, okay? Just hold on."

He wasted no time making his way to the nearest hospital.

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"Well I'm glad you brought her in, Mr. Stragallopolous. It appears this poor girl's got an ear infection."

The doctor was smiling benignly, but he might as well have been wearing a black robe and bearing the sickle of death for all Dean was concerned. His baby girl was sick and he'd almost let his fear of disappointing his Dad convince him not to take her to a doctor. She had a _fever_. And an _ear infection_. She was in _pain_.

"But she's okay?" He would have laughed at the fear in his voice if he'd heard it come from anybody else. As it was, his knees were shaking and he felt a little bit like throwing up.

"She's fine," the doctor assured him. "Just feeling a little under the weather. But the ear infection is probably causing her some pain, too."

_Oh God, this isn't fair!_ She was just a baby – how the hell was she supposed to tell him when something was wrong? She'd been crying for hours and Dean had tried soothing her with the fucking radio.

"Sir, she's going to be okay," the doctor said, taking note of the young father's visible signs of unease. "Ear infections are quite common in children, though I admit she's a bit young to be getting them yet. Does your wife breastfeed?"

Dean sighed.

"Mary's mom died in childbirth," he said warily. "Why? Would breast milk have prevented this?"

The doctor shrugged.

"It might," he admitted. "Breast milk has natural antibodies in it that help babies to develop stronger immune systems."

Well that was just freakin' peachy!

"So what do we do?" Dean asked. "How do we treat this?"

"Antibiotics," the doctor said.

"Are you serious?" That didn't sound right. "She's only three months old. Isn't that, like, dangerous or something?"

The doctor chuckled.

"It's perfectly safe," he assured Dean. "As I said, ear infections with babies are common. As is the treatment."

The doctor took out his prescription pad and wrote out the prescription with instructions.

"You have any problems at all, you just bring her right back on in," the man said reassuringly as Dean made his way out of the doctor's office with Mary held snugly to his chest.

"Thanks, doc," Dean said, feeling both intensely relieved and guilty at the same time.

He walked through the narrow corridor of the hospital on legs made of wood, knowing with a deep sense of dread how close he'd come to ignoring his gut instinct that something was wrong with Mary and continuing on to Bobby's as per his father's orders. Over and over he'd told himself that he had to suck it up and be a man – only chicks do the mollycoddling, rushing baby to the hospital for crying bullshit. He'd almost _ignored_ his baby girl's pain and left her to suffer through a fever – which only would have climbed if left untreated – and an ear infection.

He felt like seven kinds of shit, and was sure he was the most craptastic father ever to disgrace the title of father.

When he finally did arrive at the salvage yard he was a full five hours late and exhausted beyond possible description. Mary had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, occasionally stirring to let out a few gummy cries of distress and then stumbling back into dreamland. Dean wanted to eat, shower, and then sleep for a million fucking years.

He'd barely made it out of the car before the screen door on Bobby's porch slammed shut and the thunderous steps of heavy feet clobbered the rough planks of wood in an angry beat to John Winchester's furious march.

"Where the hell have you been?" he hollered, taking no notice of the sleeping infant his son had just extracted from the car.

The man might as well have triggered a silent alarm. Right on cue Mary squeezed her tiny eyes tight and opened her mouth in an ear-splitting howl.

Dean hung his head in defeat, his shoulders slumping tiredly with the renewed wailing.

"Hospital," Dean murmured, having no energy to even defend himself.

"What?" Sharp and waspish, but tinged with the tiniest wisps of fear.

"Mary's got an ear infection," Dean explained, blinking sleep out of his eyes. "She wouldn't stop screamin', Dad, and I knew something was wrong. And I know you said I can't rush her in every time she cries but damnit something was _wrong_ with her – and I fuckin' ignored it for hours before I finally decided to check it out and it's a damned good thing I did because she's got a fever too and don't babies brains like liquify with fevers?"

It all came out in a rush, his guilt and his fears and his feelings of helplessness strangling his voice and making it sound frighteningly and embarrassingly warbly. Dean could feel his fucking lip and chin quivering, too, which was just perfect. It was official. Being a single dad had officially turned him into a chick.

"Hey, hey," John soothed, all traces of anger evaporated at his son's near meltdown. "Take it easy, kiddo. Mary's gonna be fine. You did good. You saw somethin' was wrong and you took her in."

"I'm just so tired." It was barely even a whisper, and he hadn't even meant to say it. It was like his soul had cried it out and not his mouth.

"I know," John said, clapping a hand gently on Dean's shoulder and pulling him in for a brief but tight hug. "I know. Why don't you head on inside and I'll look after Mary for a bit. I bet she's really just been cryin' for her Grandpa, right Mare?"

The baby would neither confirm nor deny her grandfather's assessment, but continued to cry shrilly when John took her from her Daddy and pulled her in close so she would wail into his shoulder.

Dean stumbled up the steps to Bobby's front porch, shuffling on feet weighted down by two tons of lead plus the weight of planet Earth bearing down on his shoulders. He was just so tired. So fucking tired. He felt strung out and stretched beyond his limits, irrational and _emotional_ with fatigue. And always in the back of his mind the constant reminder of how close he'd come to royally fucking up, how close he'd come to damaging his own kid through neglect, and how _easy_ it would have been to do it, ran like a scrolling marquee and branded itself on his brain. She was just a baby, after all. She couldn't open her tiny bee stung lips and tell him what was wrong, where it hurt, or what she needed. She couldn't tell him that these tears were different than the last ones, this spell was a dire warning when the last had been merely garden variety baby distress. It would have been so easy to miss, so easy to dispel his own fears, so easy to ignore. It made him hyper-aware of the cause-effect relationship between parents' actions and their children's welfare. From here on out, every decision he made had consequences. Potentially dire consequences.

"No offense, kid, but you look like shit warmed over," Bobby's voice greeted from the doorway. The gruff old mechanic was leaning against the doorframe with a curious smile on his face.

"Well at least I can blame it on sleep deprivation," Dean quipped tiredly. "What's your excuse?"

Bobby pulled Dean close for a brief, rough hug and then pushed him back with his hands clutching his shoulders to take a good, long, appraising look at him.

"Well it was bound to happen," the man said with a grin. "Can't say as I'm surprised."

Dean raised an eyebrow in question and Bobby merely nodded his head in the direction of John approaching with the infant in his arms.

"Fact is I thought there'd be a few more little'uns runnin' around, what with all the tail you've chased over the years," and he gave Dean's cheek a gentle smack. "What're we gonna do with you, huh boy?"

Dean sighed and hung his head again.

"Try sticking a fork in me," he said tiredly. "'Cos I'm done."

"Really?" Bobby chuckled. "Beg to differ, kiddo, but I'd say you've got at least another eighteen years to go."

If anyone were to ask him about it later, Dean wouldn't have been able to tell them if it was exhaustion or that hard realization knocking the wind out of his chest that took him down, but he dropped like a stone, crumbling in a boneless heap on the threshold of Bobby Singer's front door just as the old scruffy man turned his attentions to his friend on the stairs as he approached with the still-screaming infant in his arms.

Both John and Bobby turned their eyes to the fallen young father.

"Well that ain't good," Bobby mused.

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_Oh my God, what's happened to me?_ Dean thought in a panic as he opened his bleary eyes to a world without sound – or rather, a world without the constant wailing of his distressed child. He didn't remember being in any kind of accident or explosion, but he'd surely gone deaf because everything was fucking _quiet_. Disoriented and near mad with panic, Dean tore the sheets off from around his body, barely taking the time to note that he'd been laid to rest in the spare room at Bobby's place, and made a dash for the door. Everything in the hallway and beyond was quiet.

"Dad?" Dean called, his voice a pathetic, garbled croak. So, not deaf then. He cleared his throat and tried again, moving on swift feet down the stairs. "Dad? Bobby?"

"Shhhh!"

Dean entered the living room on wobbly legs and immediately saw that his daughter was cradled in her grandfather's arms, fast asleep and contently half-suckling on a pacifier. John was standing kind of hunched over, his voice pitched low and _singing_, as he swayed the baby back and forth. Bobby was watching and grinning from his seat at a nearby table, up to his elbows in research materials but clearly enjoying the sight of bad-ass John Winchester cooing over a baby.

"What the hell happened?" Dean queried as he rubbed absently at a sore spot on his head.

"You decided to take a nap in the middle of the doorway," Bobby whispered.

"Went down like a ton of bricks," John added with a wicked grin.

Dean threw himself on the couch and muttered a half-hearted 'shuddup,' before allowing his bones to relax into the cushions.

"So Mary finally scream herself to sleep or what?" Dean queried, but John was shaking his head.

"Nope," he corrected. "Your daughter's asleep right now because Bobby here is a genius."

Dean's brows drew up at attention because his body could not. In reply, Bobby rose from his chair and shuffled over to the other side of the table, where he promptly produced an off-coloured plastic fold-up device that looked like it hadn't been in use since the late 70s. He dangled the thing by its twisty cord and smiled smugly.

"A hair dryer?" Dean queried.

Bobby and John both grinned like schoolboys and nodded in unison.

"You should have seen it, Dean," John said in awe. "Bobby plugged it in and blew some warm air into her ears and it was like magic! Screamin' stopped – and she just zonked right out. She's been down for about an hour."

The two old bastards were so pleased with themselves it was almost embarrassing.

"Wait!" Dean argued, disbelief showing in his tired eyes. "A hair dryer? Seriously? How the hell did you ever think to use a hair dyer?"

"My wife had a book of home remedies that she left lyin' around before she passed," Bobby explained with a shrug. "And before you decide to get cute, the hair dryer was hers, too!"

Dean snorted a laugh and relaxed back into the couch.

"Whatever you say, man," Dean joked. "Now I know how you always manage to get that extra lift into your hair."

"Smartass," Bobby muttered.

John was presently relieved of his babysitting duties, having placed the sleeping child in her father's waiting arms as he sat sprawled lazily on the couch. Dean didn't mind taking her back now that she was quiet again – in fact, it was nice to have her nuzzled against his chest, her body tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, her head resting at the base of his neck. He watched the two older hunters passing books back and forth, making small talk about demonic omens and portents, trying in earnest to pay attention to their conversation because it pertained to a hunt and he was fucking itching to get back in the game, but his eyes were drooping and his head kept falling back. Eventually he couldn't fight it anymore and fell slack against the plush, ancient upholstery.

"Dun' that just break yer heart?" Bobby teased gently.

Dean had fallen asleep in a seated sprawl, his head dipped back with his neck exposed like a vampiric offering and his mouth hanging open, slack. Mary was snuggled into the crook of her Daddy's arm, her head resting on the bare skin at the base of his neck, her tiny fingers fisting in sleep through the cotton fabric at the collar of his shirt.

"He sure loves her," John admitted with a sigh. "I tried so hard to convince him that this wasn't any kind of life for a little girl, but..." he shook his head and his brown eyes rose slowly to meet those of his friend. "Well you've seen 'im. He just fell in love with her, Bobby. Took one look at her and he didn't even stand a chance."

"Well what'd you expect?" Bobby snorted quietly. "That boy don't know where his head is 'less he's lookin' after someone. You beat into him that lookin' after his family's his job before anythin' and everythin' else. You think he coulda just walked away from his own flesn'n blood?"

"Jesus Bobby, you make it sound like I brainwashed him or something," John snarked. He took a long pull from his beer bottle and averted his gaze, knowing his friend's reply wasn't going to be one he'd want to hear.

"Didn't you?" Bobby parried.

"You know what? Screw you, Singer!" The eldest Winchester leaned back in his chair and draped his arms around the chair back, his beer dangling loosely from his right hand. "Dean does what he does because he's a good son, because he knows that family comes first. And you know what that means?"

"Yeah, it means he'll be a helluva better father'n you ever were," Bobby retorted.

John clamped his mouth shut with an audible click. The scruffy old bastard had pretty much stolen the words right out of his mouth, but somehow it still felt like a slap to the face to hear it coming from someone else. John Winchester had no problems condemning his own behaviour – having someone else condemn him for the same things was something else entirely.

"And you know I'm right," Bobby smirked. Then he softened, offering up the proverbial olive branch, and leaned back in his own chair. "So what're you gonna do about all this?" All this included Dean, the baby, hunting, and life in general, he supposed.

"I don't now," John sighed. "But I need to get back into it, Bobby. I gotta get back on the hunt for Mary's killer. _My_ Mary."

"And Dean?"

John rubbed his forehead and groaned. "I don't know... He says he wants to keep hunting, but with a baby...? I just don't know if that's gonna be possible."

Bobby chewed the inside of his cheek in thought and then took a sip of his own beer, silent and contemplative as the two men thought about the long road ahead. Then the old man bristled and sat up straight, suspicion sinking in.

"Hang on a sec," he said sharply. "You two showin' up here an' you with your sights set on a hunt... You better not be here fishin' around for a babysitter."

John had the grace to look ashamed but didn't blush.

"What's the matter, _Uncle Bobby?_" John teased, clapping his old friend roughly on the shoulder and grinning like a proud papa. "You afraid of an eleven-pound baby?"

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Dean watched, feeling dejected and alone, as his father's black pick-up pulled away from the salvage yard, the two older hunters trundled up with their hunting gear on the road to take down the latest evil and leaving Dean behind in the cluttered two-storey building to keep house. "Next time," his father had assured him. "You'll come along next time. But with the baby sick, you're needed here." And Dean had had to concede defeat because it was true, _this_ time. Mary did need him, and he couldn't very well take off and leave her alone with Bobby while she was sick. His conscience wouldn't let him: his attachment to his baby wouldn't let him. Admittedly, the idea of leaving her behind was hard enough to contemplate as it was, but leaving her when she was sick? Forget it.

But it still made him nervous about behind left behind for future hunts. He wanted to be in it, to stay sharp and get out there and pummel some evil to blow off some of the freakin' steam that had been building up in him for months. He needed to kill something or he was going to blow. Or...

With his chaperone Daddy on the road for at least the next two days, Dean was suddenly like a kid with no curfew, a dog let off its leash. A sailor on leave.

"How about we head out and find ourselves a nice cozy diner, huh Mare?" he asked his gurgling daughter. The antibiotics seemed to have taken effect already since yesterday, leaving him with an only mildly cranky baby, and Bobby's hair dryer trick worked like a charm in easing the rest of her suffering. She was getting back to her usual, happy self, though she still cried most of the night, even when she wasn't wet or hungry. But still, things were improving back to their usual level of sleep-deprivation and hair-pulling stress.

He dressed her in the cutest outfit he could find, fastening a pink sleeper with 'Zeppelin Rules' on the front and the tiniest pair of mock baby jeans the Wal-Mart had had in stock. Her fuzzy head of white-blonde hair screamed at him to be kissed and he happily obliged, pressing his lips to that downy fuzz and savouring the smell of her skin as she wriggled her arms and legs in joy at the contact.

"Let's go little stink bomb," he said to her as he lifted her into his arms and looked into her eyes, which were still that baby blue-jean blue. "Time for you to start earning your keep."

It was time to test his theory that babies and puppies were chick magnets. Strapping Mary into her car seat, Dean made his way to the front door. He was a man on a mission, ready to take no prisoners. Or rather, just one. One willing prisoner who hopefully had an appetite as ravenous as his. He was so ready to get stupidly sexed up, mind-blowingly sexed up. He took a moment to prep himself mentally, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders, cricking his neck from side to side to ease the tension.

"Let's do this," he said to himself. Mary gurgled.

The diner of choice was about twenty minutes' drive from Bobby's place. Modest but tasteful, with a kind of 60s theme with posters and records on the wall of British Invasion bands and all the American greats. It was a family restaurant, which worked well for Dean as it meant fewer people were likely to want him dead if Mary kicked up a fuss. Dean took a seat in a small two-person booth and set Mary in her car seat on the table opposite him.

"Can I get you something to drink?" the waitress drawled, her attention on the three little boys at the table behind Dean's who were making spit balls out of their paper place mats.

"Uh, yeah, I'll have a beer," Dean said, hoping she'd turn around and look at him because _man_ she was hot! He couldn't imagine how someone that pretty ended up working in a diner like this in the middle of nowhere USA, but was glad for the moment that she had because he so very badly wanted to take her back to Bobby's and make her scream his name until she fucking popped.

He tried to keep his pheromones in check, not wanting his entire mien to announce him as 'desperate, horny, single Dad' as it tended to be a major turn off. He schooled his features into a mask of placid calm and self-assurance. Confidence, man! It's like riding a bike. But it had been too months and he was starting to fucking ache...

"We got Miller, Corona, Bud, and some European stuff out in the back," she said absently, then turned and set her eyes on Dean.

He did his best to keep the smug smile from tugging at the corners of his lips when she seemed to come awake at the sight of him. Her brown eyes widened fractionally, her pouty lips twitched, opened as if to say something, and then closed again. He watched as her mouth tugged from the right into a predatory, appreciative smile, her eyes taking in his lean but solid musculature, his delicate features and settling finally on his eyes. Chicks always liked his eyes.

"I'll have a Miller, thanks," he said. "And if you don't mind, maybe someone in your kitchen could just pop this in the microwave for me for about 30 seconds?" he raised the milk-filled baby bottle tentatively and gave his best shy smile.

"Awww," she cooed as she melted, leaning toward the table and affording the young father ample view of her cleavage as she gave the baby a gentle poke in the tummy. "Well aren't you just the cutest little thing? What's her name?"

"Mary," Dean supplied proudly.

"Hi, Mary," the waitress said in that lilting voice designated only for babies. "You are just the prettiest little girl I ever did see. Yes you are... yes you are!"

Dean found himself grinning a kind of dopey grin, bolstered with foolish pride at the attention his baby was getting. She _was_ the prettiest little girl ever and it made him feel a manly-version-of-giddy to hear people fussing about how cute she was.

"How old is she?" the woman asked, stealing another appreciative glance at Dean before returning to the baby with a sun-bright smile with cherry glossy lips.

"Almost three months," Dean replied. "Me an' her are stayin' here a few days on our way to California." Not entirely a lie. They _were_ staying here a few days. What mattered, though, was that he'd delicately slipped in the 'me and her' information, as in 'me and the baby' as in 'no wife' as in 'single/available/pleasepleasepleasefuckmeI'mdyin'here.'

The waitress broke into a blinding grin and tucked a long lock of brown hair behind her ear. Message received.

"Well maybe if you've got some time to spare, I could show you around," she said delicately, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth and running her tongue along the inside. Watching, waiting.

"That's awfully kind of you," Dean said, brandishing his own megawatt smile. "I'm Dean, by the way."

"Ella," she said. "How about I go and get you that beer and then take your order?" Playful and sultry. So fucking hot.

"Why thanks, darlin'," he drawled and leaned back lazily against the cushions of the booth. Sometimes it was so easy it was like stealing candy from a baby or picking low-hanging fruit.

When Ella's shift was over she volunteered to play the good Samaritan by showing up at Singer's Salvage Yard to give Dean the grand tour around her C-cups, a tour he took with the satisfaction of one who has had his first shot of heroine after a week of withdrawal. Each breast fit perfectly into the palm of his hands and he cupped them in ecstasy, eyes nearly rolling back in his head at the softness and warmth. God he'd fucking missed tits.

"Are you sure she's okay?" she asked tentatively, having paused at nibbling the tender flesh behind his ear to enquire about the well-being of the baby.

"She's fine," Dean assured her, emphatically not wanting to think about his daughter at this moment in time. Mary was sleeping peacefully in her carrier not seven feet away.

"This won't be... like, weird for her?" she asked.

"She's a baby," Dean reminded her, trailing a finger along the bumps of her spine and watching with ravenous eyes at the gooseflesh that broke out over her skin at the contact. She shivered with anticipation. "Trust me, she's not even going to notice."

At least he hoped she wouldn't. He hadn't really thought of the logistics of sex with Mary around once he actually got the girl home. Fact was he didn't have a baby monitor, since they always stayed in places too small to ever require one, so he couldn't very well leave her in another room while he banged the waitress. But he was pretty sure babies couldn't see all that well; was certain that Mary would have no idea what she was seeing even if she saw it; and knew with absolute surety that she wouldn't remember any of it even if she did manage to absorb or comprehend it.

Of course, talking about the baby and thinking about the baby made it kind of weird at first. He was hyper-aware of the fact that Mary was in the room and that he was about to do something in front of her that parents really weren't supposed to do in front of their kids. But then hands were roaming in places where hands hadn't roamed in almost three months, and all rational thought flew out the window in favour of scratching a long-overdue itch.

It was so much better than Dean remembered, not that he'd ever really forgotten, and he drew it out as long as possible, pulling out all his best tricks and savouring every inch of flesh he could get his hands and tongue on. Ella the waitress had come to him looking for a quick romp with a hot single dad and what she got was several hours' worth of his best moves. His appetite was insatiable, his stamina remarkable, his recovery time damned-well commendable. They'd had to break twice to feed and change the baby, but the pause in sexcapades only seemed to re-ignite the flame for both of them: Dean because it allowed him to get his mojo back for another round; and Ella because seeing the half-naked hottie handling a baby while she watched fully naked in bed was enough to send her overboard with renewed lust. By the time they were finally sated Ella was practically stunned, could barely remember her own name, and was nearly hoarse from crying out in pleasure so intense it was almost painful. And Dean was passed out in a comatose sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Notes:

Sorry for the long wait! I had part of this written a while ago and then got stuck on how to finish it. Not to suggest that I am low on material -- quite the opposite. It was more that I felt I'd backed myself into a corner with this chapter and didn't know where to proceed.

There's lots more to come. Hope you enjoy, and again, I apologize for the delay!

* * *

Morning's sweet tendrils of light filtered through the window in blinding flashes of whiteness, bathing the dark room with bright shards that illuminated the sleeping couple. Ella stretched leisurely and opened her eyes with a contented sigh, not worrying about the sleep crusting them together or morning breath. She got the distinct feeling that Dean Winchester wasn't a man with many bedroom hang-ups, considering some of the amazing moves he'd pulled on her last night, eyebrow-raising, scream-his-name-til-she-lost-her-mind moves. She stretched her toes and leaned into his warmth only to be met by tiny, pink, squiggly digits. She blinked past the bleeriness of sleep and took in the sight of the gorgeous baby tucked snugly into the nook of her sleeping father's arm. Dean had apparently gotten up again at some point in the night to soothe his daughter and decided to bring her to bed with him.

She salivated at the sight of him. Damn he was a fine piece of ass. The kind of hot most women only ever dream about, with a smile that made her knees weak and a body that promised every sweet sin the imagination could conjure up. And boy did it deliver! But the sight of him now, so peaceful in repose with his baby daughter tucked up safely against him, looking both so young and strong, made her stomach do strange pitter-pattery things. If there was really such thing as a biological clock, then hers was ticking now. She guessed it was nature working at its most primal level, her body seeing a strapping young male of the species caring competently for its young, and responding to it in a physical way. It made her want to reach under the covers and snatch off those form-fitting navy boxer-briefs so she could make a beautiful baby of her own -- which was just beyond nuts, because she wasn't even remotely ready for kids. But damn. _ Damn! _ If he didn't make her think about it…

Ella tried not to think about the baby's mother, where she was and why she wasn't with her daughter now. It made the picture before her, all soft edges bathed in sunglow, somehow blue and melancholy. Sure, the whole single dad thing was hot, but surely it was sad, too. Dean couldn't be a day older than twenty-five, she reasoned, and here he was taking sole responsibility for the tiny life nestled in his arm. They looked so complete together, so formed to fit each other, as if the baby were merely an extension of her father's arm. Both with the same blonde hair, though the baby was fairer, Dean's hair having darkened with age, and both with the same impossibly long eyelashes, the same pouty lips. She could feel that tingling below her navel and had to bite her lip to keep the urges at bay. Just watching them sleep, both with matching blissful masks of sleep on their contented faces, lips slightly parted, dead to the world and lost in the realm of dreams.

So she settled for watching them. The baby seemed to be dreaming, if babies could dream, because she squiggled gently, her lips parting and her little gums and tongue working inside her mouth as if to squeeze sustenance from the very air. Probably hungry, Ella thought, noticing the half-drunk baby bottle resting on the bedside table and reaching over gingerly to place it in the baby's mouth. She eased up beside Mary and held the bottle in place, watching as the baby's blue eyes opened to peer up at her as she suckled greedily. She turned her gaze fondly toward Dean, startling herself at the mossy green eyes peering intently at her.

"Sorry," she stammered, her heart racing. She hadn't meant to wake him up, and he'd seemed so crashed she was sure the slight movement wouldn't have been enough to disturb him. But now he was looking at her with eyes that were alert, as though he'd been awake for hours. And she thought she detected the hint of a smirk on his lips.

"You got that look in your eye," he said wearily, his voice garbled and husky from sleep.

"Oh yeah?" she queried, leaning forward to give him a chaste kiss on the lips. Just because. "And what look would that be?"

Dean tilted his head to the side on his pillow and grinned wickedly at her.

"Like you're thinking of goin' for another round," he drawled. "Even if it means another one of these." And his eyes glided over to Mary. "Your oven isn't screamin' for you to stick a bun in there, is it?"

Ella shrugged.

"It might be dropping a few hints," she conceded. "But let's just say…?" She trailed off and dropped her head tiredly onto his bare chest. "I'm sorry, I can't think of a way to keep this bun/oven analogy going. I was going to say something about dough rising and yeast that would have come out all wrong."

Dean cackled, eliciting a responsive gurgling from Mary as she sucked on her bottle and kicked her legs happily in reply to the rumble of her daddy's chest.

"But you were right about one thing," Ella said meaningfully, her hand slithering under the covers to ghost over warm, golden flesh, trailing down taut muscle.

"Another round?" Dean guessed, and his voice sounded husky again, only this time it was with want.

It was an awkward tangle of limbs and tongues as they pawed and groped at each other even as they climbed out of bed to put Mary back in her crib. They shuffled and stumbled, not wanting to lose contact through their fevered kisses, and Mary squawked in complaint at being caught in the middle of the panted game of tug-of-war. Once the baby was settled down safely, all bets were off. Ella wanted to lose herself in the fantasy of sun-warm skin and bodies calling to each other and babies and the whole circle of life thing -- she wanted to ride the whirlwind, get blown away into another world and then miraculously come back out of it herself, still single and childless and free of ties.

_Lord praise the sexual revolution!_ she thought, somewhere in the recesses of her mind. Birth control and condoms made the fantasy possible. Made having lots of sex with the hot single dad possible without actually having to worry about making a baby of her own.

She was just enjoying the taste and feel of his collarbone when his head suddenly snapped up, all senses on alert.

"Did you hear that?" he asked, whispering suddenly as if he were a teenager and his parents were in the next room.

"Hear what?" Ella asked, equally hushed, if only because he suddenly seemed like a spooked horse about to bolt.

She watched as his intense, steely green eyes flicked about the room, his ears trained on sounds only he seemed able to hear, or was attuned to. He held his breath and waited, straining to pick up whatever sound it was he thought he'd heard. Then he let out a relieved sigh and gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze.

"Nothin'," he said at last. "I thought I heard…" Then his eyes went wide and he gasped. "Fuck! Does that sound like a truck?"

And she heard it then, the loud rumble of an old engine, the distinct crunching of gravel under heavy tires, and Dean was on the move like a scalded cat.

"Shit!" he hissed, scurrying to the window to peer into the scrap yard below. "Fuck! They're back. FUCK!"

Ella could only stand and stare in complete bewilderment.

"Who's back?" And then a horrible thought occurred to her. Maybe she'd been played. Maybe he wasn't who he said he was at all. Maybe he wasn't single so much as attempting to engage in some shore leave. "Your_wife_?" She felt suddenly hollow and sick at the same time. "Oh my God, you're married! You're not a single dad at all, you dick! You're fucking married!"

And she punched him several times in the back of the shoulder as he made a mad scramble to pick up their clothes.

"So your wife went away for a few days to some kind of spa or to visit her sister or something and you thought you'd get a little something on the side, is that it?" she accused angrily.

"Listen, Bella --"

"ELLA!" she roared, her nostrils flaring.

Dean winced. "Sorry,_Ella_. I'm not married. I swear to God, I'm not married!" He shoved her clothes into her folded arms and ushered her towards the closet. "But any minute now there's going to be a very angry ex-marine storming in here at the sight of your car in the driveway and you really don't want to be here to see it."

"What?" she asked, completely taken aback.

The sound of a truck door creaking closed ghosted through the window and Dean was on the move again, madly tugging his jeans up his well muscled thighs.

"On second thought, you might wanna sneak out the window," he suggested.

Ella was completely dumbfounded and stood still like a dummy for a full thirty seconds while Dean scrambled about the room, burying the many used condoms from their night's endeavours in the trash under a wad of unused Kleenex that he pulled from the box.

"What the hell is going on here, Dean?" Ella demanded.

"Hurry up an put some clothes on, woman!" Dean hissed, snagging her shirt from the pile of clothes in her arms and attempting to manhandle her into it.

"DEAN!" an angry voice called from downstairs, followed by the loud boom of the front door slamming.

"Crap!" Dean hissed again, ushering Ella towards the window. "Quick, out the window!"

"Stop!" she screech-whispered, clinging her clothes to her chest. "Let me put something on first!" She hopped on one foot and tried to pull her underwear on. The loud thudding of heavy feet on the stairs made her knees tremble and suddenly she was scrambling as desperately as Dean had been only moments ago to put her clothes on.

"DEAN!" the voice shouted again, much closer now, scarily closer!

"Yeah, Dad!" Dean called back. "In a minute!"

The loudness from the shouting startled the baby, who began shrieking bloody murder.

Ella fastened the clasp of her bra at her back and gave Dean an arch look. "Your dad?" she whispered in disbelief.

Dean shrugged helplessly and gave her a very pathetic attempt at a smile. "He's kinda touched in the head," he explained nervously, yanking her top over her head as she struggled into her jeans. "Last year he got a piece of rebar through his head and ever since he's had like these crazy mood swings. Plus he's a born-again Christian. He thinks premarital sex is evil."

"You're so full of shit, Dean," she whispered, zipping up her jeans.

She turned to the window and heaved an angry, frustrated, extremely nervous sigh. The very idea of sneaking out the window like some horny teenager was so appalling she almost thought she'd rather face the irate father whose thunderous footsteps were pounding like Zeus' thunderbolts through the floorboards in the hallway. On second thought, climbing out the window couldn't be that bad.

Dean stole a quick kiss before leaning over the crib and extracting the squalling infant, shushing her with a gentle bounce and tucking her close against his bare chest just as the bedroom door suddenly burst open.

Ella wasn't sure what she'd expected, but the large, lumbering black-haired man with several days' worth of beard growth and the smouldering dark eyes was not it. Mr. Winchester was as handsome was he was imposing, gruff, large and solid like a tank, all hard muscle like Dean but without the tight, chiseled definition. He was taller than Dean, with darker skin to go with that almost black hair of his. And right now, looking like he could huff and puff and blow the house down, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to suggest that Hell had just spat him out.

"What the hell is this?" the man demanded, pointing a finger at Ella.

"Hey Dad!" Dean greeted with a friendly grin that almost looked relaxed as he rocked the crying baby in his arms, pretending to be engrossed in her care instead of shitting bricks with fear like Ella was.

"Don't tell me," his father snarked, "you've brought home another fucking waitress."

That smarted. Ella's head snapped back as though she'd been struck.

Dean coughed awkwardly and continued to rock the screeching baby.

"So uh... you're back early," he commented conversationally, as though there weren't a mad man standing looking like a thundercloud in the doorway.

"Um... I should probably go," Ella suggested delicately, really not wanting to be in the way of this particular fight, or dressing-down, or whatever it was that was about to happen.

"That's a fantastic fucking idea," the angry ex-marine barked, never taking his eyes off his son. "And while you're at it, you might want to spread the word around town that this one," he pointed at Dean, "is off limits or has herpes or something. Keep anyone else from sniffing around."

Both youngsters were horrified and affronted at the insult.

"Excuse me?" Ella dared demand at the same time that Dean exclaimed, "Herpes?" in outraged incredulity.

She was indignant and stung by her lover's father's harsh words. "I was not _sniffing_ around. And it might have escaped your notice, but your son's a grown man. He can do what he pleases."

Dean groaned and shifted the baby so that she was resting on his shoulder, taking a few tentative steps towards her to lay a warning hand on her shoulder. His body language clearly said, 'back off' but Ella wasn't going to stand around and be insulted. Maybe Dean was used to being talked to that way but she sure as hell wasn't.

For his part, the gruff angry tank actually huffed a laugh and cocked a grin. It was a handsome, devilish smile, even for an older guy, but it looked slightly sinister on his dark features, and given his tempestuous mood.

"You're right," he admitted, almost softly, thoughtfully. "He is a grown man. And I got no cause to insult you. You're both adults."

Dean's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"I'm sorry, Miss. Now if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to talk to my son now." There was an unmistakable edge to his voice and Ella didn't fail to catch the bob of Dean's Adam's apple as he gulped in anticipation.

"And for Christ's sake, Dean!" the man barked, "put Mary down and stop using her as a goddamned human shield! I know you only picked her up when you heard me coming."

Dean had the grace to look sheepish, but kept his arms protectively ensnared around his daughter, who was still crying helplessly against him.

"Maybe," he admitted with a nervous laugh, "but you'd never get me to admit to it in a court of law. Anyway, she's screamin' now and I'm thinkin' she needs another round with the blow-dryer."

"Fine," his father conceded with the slightest growl. "Bobby'll take her. You and I need to talk."

"Right," Ella said smartly, grabbing her keys from the nightstand. "My cue to exit."

She paused to share a last parting glance with Dean, noting that his panicked eyes softened, crinkling at the corners when their gazes met, and he smiled lightly with one side of his mouth, a tight, almost shy smile, one brow quirked maybe in amusement, or maybe in a kind of tease, over all they'd done to each other the previous night. How that boy could look both shy and like a sexy tease would remain a mystery to her, but she figured that was part of his charm.

"See you around, Ella," Dean said.

"Not likely," his father grumbled, escorting her not-so-kindly toward the door as she made her exit. She was spared having to say anything further by the door shutting abruptly in her face, though she could still hear the voices coming from inside the room as she paused in the hallway to take a deep, steadying breath.

"I leave you alone for less than twenty-four hours and this is what you do with your time?" Dean's father demanded.

She didn't hear Dean's reply but could imagine his face bore something of the 'well duh' variety expression.

"This isn't a game, Dean!"

"Come on, Dad," Dean's voice filtered through the door, placating and apologetic. "It's cool, okay? We were careful."

Ella grimaced at the thought of having to explain her own sexual habits to either of her parents and shook her head sadly. Dean really needed to leave the nest, especially with a daughter in tow. His dad sounded like a control freak – and a puritanical one at that. She startled when she noticed the gruff old guy in the trucker's cap waiting at the top of the landing, eyeing her with a curious expression.

"Don't mind them," he said, rolling his eyes. "Winchesters like to fight. It's what they do – only in Dean's case John fights and Dean just stands there and takes it. It'll all blow over soon."

Ella found that hard to believe but kept that thought to herself. It wasn't her business, anyway. She'd gotten what she came for: she'd indulged in the fantasy, several times, of the hot, young, single dad. She hadn't asked for forever, had been happy enough to be Miss For-Right-Now. Besides, if getting involved with Dean meant regular interactions with his dad, then she was probably well shot of him. Still... he was sweet and attentive and a god in the sack. Maybe if she was lucky some day she'd stumble upon another hottie like him – one that was interested in her and equally attentive – and this lucky fellow wouldn't come with the crazy-ex-marine dad baggage and screaming toddler. Because honestly, she wasn't really up for taking on someone else's infant. Not now, anyway.

And with that thought, she made a hasty retreat.

888

"You can't honestly expect me to never have sex again, Dad. That's just not fucking happening!"

"Watch your tone, Dean!" John warned. "I'm getting real sick of your attitude and it stops now, you hear me?"

"Yes sir," Dean acceded. "And I get that you're pissed – I do. But you've got to chill. Seriously. I was careful. There will be no more slip-ups like with Ellie."

Mary struggled to lift her heavy head, wobbling pitifully as she raised her tiny face to wail full-force in her daddy's face. The shouting was upsetting her, and given that she'd been recently ill it was really like playing with fire. Dean ran a hand soothingly back and forth across her tiny back, rubbing hypnotically to ease her suffering.

"You wanna be there for Mary?" John asked archly. "Then you gotta wise up. You can't go runnin' around chasin' tail like you used to before you became a dad. Those days are over."

Dean opened his mouth to reply and then bit it back, trying desperately to 'watch the attitude,' as his father was so fond of saying. He paused, mouth open, jaw working as he considered his words carefully. Arguing, or rather, _disagreeing_, with John Winchester was always like trying to sprint through a minefield carrying nitroglycerine. One false move could blow everything to kingdom come.

"Believe me Dad, I know," Dean admitted. "I haven't been on a hunt since Mary was born, I barely sleep more than two hours a night, and last night was the first time I've been laid since August. Believe me, I get it. And I'm tryin'. I'm doin' my best, Dad."

John's expression didn't change, though his eyes did flicker toward the screaming baby with something like guilt, showing that, at the very least, the old man felt guilty for raising his voice and upsetting the baby. That was something, anyway.

"But could you please just cut me some slack?" Dean asked. "Please?

And John felt his walls crumbling. Because Dean was actually asking for something, and the boy never did that. Pleading to be able to keep his own daughter was probably the only time John had ever seen his eldest speak up about his own needs or wants. Ever. Sure the boy could bitch, and would do about petty things, like the radio or the quality of the coffee at the latest motel they were staying at. But Dean never complained and he never asked for things for himself. Maybe John had underestimated how much his son's sex life meant to him.

And that thought made him cringe. Surely to God Dean could get by without the usual string of conquests. Was his son some kind of nympho or something? Begging to be allowed to get laid?

John cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly on his feet. He'd allowed his thoughts to stray into an area he'd vowed never to venture into: the big quagmire that was Dean's sex life. It was something he'd tried to ignore back when he'd discovered that his fifteen year-old son was sexually active. _'An early bloomer,'_ he'd told himself. _'A heart-breaker... a charmer.'_ The fact that the kid's appetite only seemed to grow more voracious as he got older had been some cause for alarm, but John figured it was Dean's way of compensating for all the crap that he saw on the job. Dean's way of unwinding.

The rest he'd just sort of left to his imagination, opting never to go there because Dean was his son and no matter how many girls his son screwed Dean was still his baby boy, and thinking about your kids as sexual beings was just... damned uncomfortable. It had always been understood that Dean was free to do what he wished with the ladies, as many ladies as he liked, as often as he liked, so long as it didn't interfere with the job and so long as it didn't get him into any trouble.

_Well guess what?_ John thought ruefully. _Trouble's come a'knockin'_.

"Fine," John conceded at last, huffing an angry breath. "You get a pass this once. But don't think things'll be going back to the way they were. You got responsibilities here: to me, to the job, and to your daughter, and any play time you get comes after everything else."

"Yes sir." And Dean looked so relieved he seemed to deflate on the spot.

"I mean it, Dean," John warned. "Nights like last night are gonna be few and far between. You don't have the luxury of followin' your dick around like you used to. You screwed up and now you gotta pay the piper."

"Yes sir," Dean said, nodding. "Just... you know..." He shrugged and averted his gaze to the top of Mary's blonde head as he struggled with what he was about to say. "When I do manage to get lucky, if you could maybe..."

John waited impatiently, raising his eyebrows in a silent command for his son to continue. Dean noticed his father's impatience and cleared his throat.

"Maybe you could not act like a lunatic and run in screaming and insulting the chick I'm bangin'? That would be _awesome_."

John laughed and slapped his son on the shoulder.

"No promises," he said, taking the baby from his son's tear and drool-slathered chest and wrapping her in his strong arms. "Now go take a piss before you start dancin' on the carpet. You've been doin' that thing with your right leg for the last five minutes."

"Thanks Dad," Dean said in a rush as he escaped the bedroom and made a beeline down the hall for Bobby's bathroom.

John could only shake his head. "What are we gonna do with him, huh?" he asked the now calming bundle in his arms. "If you can't whip him into shape we're doomed kiddo. So you can't let me down."

Mary hiccoughed and gurgled, squiggling uncomfortably for some kind of reprieve. Probably wet and needing that dryer to her ears again.

888

_November 1, 2005_

Sam Winchester knew his brother well. It was the natural result of spending nearly twenty-four hours a day in close quarters with someone for eighteen years. There was a time when Sam would have said that he knew the meaning behind every twitch of his big brother's brow, every quirk of his grin, every flash of his mossy green eyes. He could read every gesture and give you an accurate read-out of what foreign language his brother was speaking, proud that there were only two other people on planet Earth that could speak 'Dean': himself and John Winchester. But the years of separation had put some distance between them, and in the interim Dean had learned some new signs, some new expressions, and Sam hadn't been around to learn how to translate.

His heart squirmed with a twinge of pain and guilt at the last two years of complete silence. He'd cut his brother out, said in not so many words that he didn't want his new life interrupted by his old one, and Dean had complied like he always did and given Sam his coveted space. And in that time Dean had developed a new language that only Dean and Mary Winchester spoke. Sam felt an irrational spike of jealousy at the thought that John probably spoke a word or two of this new language: hell, he was probably fluent in it.

Sam sat on the bench and watched his brother pushing the pig-tailed toddler on a nearby swing. Dean's face looked serenely happy, a light and easy smile playing across his lips as he pushed Mary and listened to her squeals of joy, crying, "High, Daddy! High!" The swings themselves were designed for younger children, with full-rounded scoop bottoms and holes for young legs to poke through, a safety bar that slid up and down on a chain resting above the children's knees to keep them securely in place. They couldn't swing very high, but for a two year-old it was like flying, Sam supposed.

Other children raced through the park with wild abandon, older boys chasing each other, tossing a ball back and forth and taunting some of the smaller children. A couple of little girls played in a nearby sandbox, gathering large mounds of dirt to pile it up into a lumpy, unrecognizable shape. A few nearby mothers chatted and sipped coffee as they absently shifted their strollers with sleeping infants inside, keeping a watchful eye on their older children who were playing on a jungle gym, shouting the occasional, "Watch me, Mommy! Watch me!" as they came down the slide.

Again Sam was overcome with how surreal this whole thing was. Dean a dad. Dean a freakin' dad. It shouldn't have been a surprise, considering how much of a playboy his big brother had always been. Sooner or later his wandering ways were bound to catch up with him. As a teenager Sam had had visions of his big brother and a shotgun wedding, some angry rifle-wielding Dad forcing Dean down the aisle with a heavily pregnant bimbo at his side and their father scowling angrily from the sidelines. That or maybe a long line of girls with their hands held out for Dean to pay for their abortions.

But no matter how many times, or how many different scenarios his imagination had conjured up, the reality of Dean Winchester as a father just never stopped being absolutely fucking crazy. Dean was wildness unleashed: he was blatant disregard for the rules; he was wanderlust; he was roving eye and restlessness; he was no strings attached and love 'em and leave 'em; he was 'real jobs are for pussies' and barroom brawls, credit card fraud; he was take down the evil sonovabitch; he was die young and leave a beautiful corpse.

But he was other things, too, Sam chided himself. Dean was responsible, for all his other glaring proofs to the contrary. He'd taken care of Sam for as long as Sam could remember. Hell, he'd taken care of their Dad, too. In that sense Sam supposed Dean had always been sort of solid, reliable, sturdy, and permanent. And Dean was giving, too. He never asked for anything for himself, but went out of his way to make sure his little brother had everything he needed. Sam remembered Dean taking on odd jobs every summer, like mowing lawns and cleaning gutters, so that he could have spare change to buy popsicles and sodas for Sam when it got too hot, or for groceries when Dad stayed away too long and the money ran out. And Dean was always there, at the drop of a hat, whenever Sam needed him.

Sam smiled wistfully, realizing suddenly that in many ways Dean was perfect for fatherhood. He was strong and protective and self-sacrificing, willing to give up everything for the ones he loved. He'd been doing it since he was four and a half years old, since their mother died in fire and ash all those years ago.

Sam frowned. Twenty-two years ago tomorrow, in fact. A chill ran through his spin and shivered up his vertebrae, causing him to shudder.

"Uh-oh," his brother's voice cut through his thoughts. "Looks like Uncle Sammy's gettin' all moody and mopey."

Sam looked up and saw Dean striding towards him, Mary hop-footing happily at her Daddy's side. She tilted her head upwards and grinned, which Dean returned with a grin of his own: a silent communication that was playful and mischievous. Sam frowned in suspicion.

Then the toddler was running at him, launching her tiny body onto his lap and wrapping her chubby little arms around his neck. He melted when he saw her grinning face pressing close to his, her tiny rosebud lips planting a wet kiss on his cheek. He thought he might die right there of her sheer cuteness.

Dean grinned cockily, knowingly, and smirked at his baby brother being seduced by a two year-old. Mary nuzzled her face into Sam's cheek, fine wispy blonde hairs tickling his nose.

"You're so whipped," Dean commented with a chuckle.

"Yeah, like you aren't," Sam countered.

Dean shrugged. "Whatever."

Sam could feel Mary's long eyelashes brushing his cheekbone and he allowed himself to sigh deeply in contentment. His niece was sweetness personified. She loved to cuddle and hug and snuggle, was forever planting kisses on her Daddy's cheek, and now, apparently, on Sam's as well. Jess had already been the recipient of a few wet kisses of her own, earlier that morning, and would likely be receiving more by the time this visit was over. He listened with a grin as the little girl hummed to herself and pressed her cheek closer, rubbing back and forth. She blinked, her lashes tickling Sam's cheek again, and pulled back, her brow drawn in confusion.

"Daddy?" she called, eying her uncle Sam with big, wide, green eyes.

Dean grunted in reply as he rifled through the duffle at Sam's feet, emerging triumphantly with a clean diaper.

"Isn't she old enough for toilet training?" Sam queried.

Dean blushed and gave his brother a weary look.

"We're gonna try again in a little while," Dean hedged. "Give her a bit of a breather after the last time."

"Last time?"

"Daddy?" Mary pressed.

"What is it, babe?" Dean asked distractedly as he laid out a blanket on the grass.

"Umpy Sammy inna swatchy," she said, running a sticky hand down her uncle's cheek. "Hmmm—mebbe Umpy Sammynatta boy..." and the rest of what she said was lost to Sam in incoherent toddler gabbling, though he distinctly caught the word "girl" somewhere in the question at the end.

Whatever she said, Dean threw his head back and laughed, hard, high pitched, and uproarious, for a full minute and a half before he would bother to translate.

"Dude, she just totally asked if you were a girl," Dean explained through hearty guffaws.

Sam jumped in surprise, his eyes darting to the grinning toddler in his arms, who threw her head back in imitation of her Daddy, not sure what exactly she was laughing at but joining in because it looked like fun.

"What?" Sam demanded.

"You got no hair on your face," Dean said, wiping at his eyes. "I guess I never really thought about it before, but all the men she knows kinda have beards."

"You don't!"

Dean shrugged. "Got scruff, though. Not all freshly shaved like you there, Samantha." He renewed his chuckles at the thought.

"Well who else has got a beard besides Dad?" Sam demanded, refusing to be insulted by a two year-old.

"Bobby," Dean replied. "And Pastor Jim."

"You took her to Pastor Jim's and Bobby's?" Wow. That stung. That really stung. The old mechanic and kindly pastor had met Mary before Sam even knew she existed?

Again Dean shrugged.

"Course. Where do you think she goes when Dad and I are on a hunt, Sam? You think we leave her waiting in the car or something?"

Sam's mind was reeling. He wanted to punch something – Dean being the most appealing target – and had to resist the urge to just deck his big brother for being so nonchalant about the whole 'I have a kid and I never bothered to tell you' thing.

"I can't believe you!" Sam said at length.

Mary sensed her uncle's unease and slid off his lap, coming to her father's side and leaning against him with greedy fingers pawing at him to pull her close. His hands instinctively pulled her near, his body responding to her needs without conscious thought.

"What?" Dean asked defensively, confused.

"You should have told me, Dean!" Sam said. His nostrils were flaring and he knew he was wearing the look that Dean called his bitch face but right now he didn't care. "Bobby and Jim knew all about her but you didn't see the need to pick up the phone and tell me – your own brother – that you had a daughter?"

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed, his expression darkening.

"If I did would you have answered?"

Sam paused mid rant and considered it. No, he conceded. He probably wouldn't have.

"You could have left me a message," Sam said lamely. "If I'd known about Mary I would have called back."

Dean grimaced and scoffed a mirthless laugh.

"Screw you, Sam." Dark eyes flashed angrily. "You didn't want to talk to me? That's fine. I may not be Mr. College but I'm not an idiot. I can take a freakin' hint. You didn't want to talk to me. Whatever."

"But you had a kid..." Sam argued.

"And I'm not gonna beg you to call me back," Dean went on. "You wanted out so I left you out, okay? So what, you think I'd use my freakin' daughter to lure you back in? Leave you some kind of lame message: _'Oh hey, Sam. I know you wanna pretend you don't have a family, but just so you know, I got a kid now. Later man.'_ I'm not that pathetic."

Sam was taken aback.

"I never said you were pathetic."

Dean ignored him and resumed rifling through the duffle.

"Come on, Mare," Dean said. "Let's get you changed, huh?"

Mary laid down on the blanket and obediently lifted her legs so her Daddy could change her diaper.

There was an awkward moment of tension-filled silence where no one spoke while Dean tended to Mary's soiled bottom, hands working meticulously, methodically, deftly, as the dirty diaper was removed, a handy wipe applied to clean the tender skin, and a fresh diaper applied. Feeling it was his place to break the tension, Sam cleared his throat and spoke.

"So what happened last time?"

"Huh?" Dean asked absently, not really wanting to engage in any more conversation.

"With the toilet training," Sam explained.

"Oh," Dean said, shoulders relaxing fractionally as he pulled his little girl's tiny denim jeans back up her hips. "Well, Dad kinda mentioned that it was probably time to start potty training her a couple of months ago. So Mary decided she was going to teach herself."

Sam raised a questioning eyebrow.

"She uh... She tried using the toilet and it uh... didn't work out so well."

Sam tried not to smile picturing his little, tiny niece trying to clamor up onto a toilet.

"She couldn't reach it?"

Dean nodded.

"Why didn't you guys get her one of those little potty training toilets they have for toddlers?" Sam asked.

"We did," Dean defended. "It was in the bathroom right next to the bathtub, asshat! God, I'm not a freakin' moron, Sam!"

"Sorry!" Sam defended, hands raised in surrender.

"She didn't want to use that one," Dean explained. "She wanted to use the grown-up toilet like her Daddy and her grandpa."

"Gumpy," Mary said wistfully.

Sam had an idea where this was going and grimaced in anticipation.

"I was researching a haunting in Wyoming when I heard her start bawling in the bathroom. I thought she musta cut herself or somethin' but she was just standin' in front of the toilet cryin' like the world was ending. Her pants around her ankles and... well, you know."

"I peed onda floor," Mary said with a sniffle.

"Yeah, but it was an accident," Dean replied, giving her a gentle kiss on the temple. "You're a good girl, aren't ya Mare?"

She nodded and sniffled again.

"So she was trying to..." Sam said vaguely, waving a hand in the general direction of his crotch. "Use the bathroom like you and Dad...?"

Dean nodded.

"Girls donn habba pee tandenup," Mary explained to her uncle Sam, a lesson she had unfortunately learned too late. "Girls donn habba peepee but I habba bagina."

Dean closed his eyes and chuckled, blushing deeply. Sam didn't envy his brother that conversation. How exactly did one explain to a little girl with no mother that she didn't have the same parts as her Daddy? That must have been one hell of an awkward conversation, especially for his run-away-from-awkward-conversations-like-the-plague big brother.

They made their way back to the Impala and back to Sam and Jess's apartment without incident. A quick lunch and then they'd be hitting the road to find their Dad. Jess was waiting for them when they got back, glad to have had the time to herself to get some studying done while they played with Mary at the park. Lunch was filled with the chatter of the happy two year-old, who garbled nonsensically to her new Uncle and Aunt about the park and Dora the Explorer. Sam couldn't understand half of what she said, but Jess seemed to be picking it up all right. Dean, on the other hand, was fluent in Mary Speak and would translate here and there, delicately of course, so as not to let his little girl know that she wasn't quite being understood by anyone but him.

"That's right," he would say, "tell Uncle Sammy about the gorilla that Dora found on one of her adventures."

Well that explained what a 'gorrr' was, Sam thought.

After lunch was finished Dean and Sam packed up their things in the trunk and readied themselves for the trip. Mary's toys and necessities were stacked in the spare bedroom, where she would have easy access, and Dean gave Jess a quick walk-through of the general routine.

"She usually has a nap at around three," Dean explained. "If she doesn't she can get kind of whiny. That'll give you some time to yourself."

Jess smiled weakly, mildly terrified at the thought of being left alone with her boyfriend's brother's two year-old. Memories of last night's tantrum resounded like a gong in her head.

"Make sure she picks up after herself," Dean ordered. "She knows she's not allowed to leave her stuff lyin' around, so don't let her get away with it if she tries."

"I left her nightlight on the bedside table. She doesn't like to sleep in the dark. Oh – and she might try to crawl in bed with you if she gets scared in the night. Where she doesn't really know you so well yet, that probably means tonight."

His smile was apologetic so she gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"No problem," she assured him. "If she gets scared, we can just have a sleepover in my bed, can't we Mary?"

Mary grinned up at her hopefully.

"Okay," Dean said with a heavy sigh. He crouched down low and gave his little girl a hug. "You be good, okay Mary? Uncle Sammy and I are going to go look for Grandpa. So you gotta stay here with Auntie Jess. You be a good girl and do what she says."

Mary nodded solemnly, her big eyes wide and dewy with unshed tears.

"We'll be back before you know it," Dean promised. "You just be a good girl. Remember what Daddy told you, all right? Be a good little soldier and follow orders."

"Yes sir," she piped up proudly, puffing up her tiny chest and saluting her Daddy.

Dean swallowed convulsively and averted his gaze, and for a brief moment Sam was sure he saw his big brother's eyes looking distinctly wet. Then Dean gave Mary's cheek a firm kiss, squeezing her tightly before letting her go.

"I'll call you tonight," Dean said as he stood up.

And without further ado they made their way out of the apartment in search of their father. They had less than a week to make it to Jericho and back, and Sam hoped John Winchester wouldn't be too hard to find, and that when they did find him he wouldn't hold to his promise that Sam should stay gone. He hoped a lot of things.


End file.
